Page 56 of Starside

Before I can say a single word, she turns to leave. By the time I blink, she’s already down the stairs.

Her words cycling through my mind, I finally step into my room.

It’s small but warm, with a bed brimming with thick blankets. My eyes nearly water with gratitude, seeing them. A fire is already burning in the corner. And I discover, with soul-melting relief, that there’s a bath.

I take my time scrubbing my skin, then each item of clothing. The king is a bastard, but I’m grateful for the new clothing, especially the extra undergarments I grabbed before leaving. I hang it all up to dry near the hearth.

Then I slip below the sheets, and groan. My body sinks into the mattress. I’ve never been so tired in my life. My exhaustion hits me all at once, my muscles going slack.

Through half-shut eyes, I stare at the crackling fire. Memories flash of other flames, all-consuming, killing, destroying flames.

“I’m here,” I whisper to the goddess who set those fires. “I’m on your side now. There are no gates between us.” I watch the flames flicker. “And when I reach you, you will wish you killed me too.”

I wake up on the floor, tangled in my sheets. They’re stuck to my skin by a film of sweat. I take a panicked breath, nearly choking on the fabric, before kicking them away, gasping.

The nightmares. They haven’t stopped.

At least, it means I actually slept deeply last night.

There’s a knock upon the door, and I jump.

Xara. “There’s food waiting downstairs,” she says through the wood, before the floorboards creak as she moves on.

I take a quick bath, braid my hair into its two that converge in one, pin it up, then slip my dried clothes back on. They’re warm thanks to the hearth, and I wriggle my toes in my boots, relishing the feeling.

Pack over my shoulder, I step out of my room, not expecting someone to be right there, filling the hall with their wide shoulders, passing by at that exact same moment.

I smack right into them, then stagger back, falling—

Right down the stairs.

Or at least, I would have, had a hand not fisted the front of my shirt, keeping me on the ledge. A massive hand, with thin, dark tattoos curling down every long, pale finger.

Shit.

I look up. And up. Into the darkness of a hood.

“Are you actively trying to find your death?” a voice spits out.

I swallow, grateful for the shirt I’m wearing below the one crumbled in his hand, that’s currently keeping my markings hidden. “It certainly seems like it.”

And he hasn’t saved me yet. I’m still leaned back at an angle. If he were to let me go, I would fall and break my neck on these stairs. Xara might be an immortal, but if I screamed right now, I doubt she could reach me in time. That fact alone should probably make me more agreeable. Pleasant, even. He probably wants me to beg him to pull me back up. But I’ve already begged him for mercy before, and I’m not doing it again. I just lift my chin in defiance.

His head tilts.

Then he loosens his grip, sending me lurching back just an inch, and I gasp. My heart sputters.

My eyes narrow. Bastard.

On instinct, I reach behind me, blinded by the need to at least injure him before he drops me, because apparently, yes, I am actively trying to find my death. But my fingers brush my empty scabbard. There’s nothing there.

Fuck. It’s in the floorboards.

I hear a huff of cruel mirth—and maybe shock—above me.

Heat prickles my cheeks, but I don’t drop my gaze, refusing to show an ounce of fear or shame in front of this monster. This monster that currently has my life clutched in his fist. His grip tightens again, long fingers slipping down my chest.

Just when I think he’ll finally let go, he slowly pulls me up, inch by inch, right toward his hidden face to say, “Careful. You just might find it.”