Page 53 of Consort's Glory
Angelique inclined her head. “Hard to question a decapitated corpse.”
Roger didn’t look up, but Margot saw his head move with a slow, pained shake. “I didn’t know,” he croaked. The nasally quality of it implied he had either been crying, or that his nose had been broken.
Margot frowned and took another step, her hands tingling with the need to heal, but was halted by Theodore’s grasp.
“What didn’t you know?” he asked, tugging Margot back to his side without taking his eyes off of Roger.
The huddled man tightened his hold on his bent knees, his jeans torn and splattered with dark stains. He had dark hair that was a wild mix of curls and cowlicks, and the forearms exposed by his dirty t-shirt were browned by the sun and corded with lean muscle.
Roger’s breathing was labored, rasping loudly in the muffled quiet of the basement. “I didn’t know the bomb was for a healer. I never would have done it if I knew. I thought it was just supposed to be the house.”
Angelique let out a harsh, rumbling growl. “You never should have made a bomb to begin with, Roger. What did you think it would be used for — making rainbows?”
He flinched. Burying himself more deeply into his knees, Roger rasped, “I didn’t ask any questions. I just needed the money, okay? I thought, ‘it’s small enough to not cause too much damage.’ The contact said it wouldn’t be used to hurt anyone, anyway, and that it was just going to be for scaring someone. I didn’t think—”
He cut himself off with a wheeze, his shoulders shaking. The scent of copper and salt bloomed in the air.
“Enough,” Margot snapped. “Can’t you see he’s in too much pain to talk?” Tugging her hand out of Theodore’s grip, she made to cross the distance between herself and Roger.
Heavy, claw-tipped hands closed over her shoulders. “No, Margot.” Theodore’s voice was a hard command. “I can’t let you get close enough to heal him. I won’t allow it.”
Margot craned her neck to glare over her shoulder, her eyes locking with his. Her duty as a healer overrode her budding weakness for him, her anxiety, and her attraction with vicious efficiency. Pulling her shoulders back, she said, “Let me go, Sovereign.”
“So we’re back to Sovereign, are we?” Theodore’s eyebrows drew dark slashes over his eyes, his hard expression cast in sharp relief by the single bulb. A muscle in his jaw ticked. She thought she saw a flicker of frustration in his eyes, but it was quickly overtaken by his flat glare. “The answer is still no.”
Margot sucked in a sharp breath. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do.”
She felt his fingers flex on her shoulders; a warning her instincts recognized and immediately discarded. “Margot,” he rumbled, voice dropped so low it sank into her blood like warm molasses, “I said no.”
Anger blazed, hot and bright. The part of her that was smothered roared to life, its mental chains snapping one by one as it accepted the challenge Theodore laid at its feet. No one, not even the sovereign of the Elvish Protectorate, got to tell her when she could and couldn’t heal someone.
Being in the basement brought back terrible memories of her own confinement, her own torture. Seeing a man suffer needlessly, criminal or not, grated hard against every healer’s instinct she possessed. And being told no, like she was back in the Goodeland, smothered and patronized and made to fear everything that might bring her even a spark of purpose or joy? That was a step too godsdamned far.
She had so little time left, so little life left. Margot would be damned if she let one more fucking person step on her.
In an instant, electricity crackled through her veins, out through her pores to race along her skin and snap like tiny vipers in her hair. The air filled with the sharp scent of ozone and the snap of sparks as her eyes disappeared in a froth of raw power.
Margot bared her teeth and wrenched away, electricity arcing from her shoulders to sting his hands in violent rebuke.
“Shit!” Theodore hissed. He was forced to let her go, his gloves no protection from an electrical charge when they had built-in metal accents.
Before he or Angelique could try to grab her, Margot rushed to Roger’s side. As soon as she was on her knees, she let the burn of electricity dissipate, the power fizzling out as it drew back into the core that kept her alive — and was steadily killing her.
Theodore stormed after her, his expression thunderous and his long black coat flapping around his knees. “Margot, do not—”
“Hush,” she snapped. “He’s chained to the damn floor and he’s already injured. What do you think he’s gonna do?”
Theodore stopped his furious approach barely a foot away from her, his eyes blazing and his hands flexing so hard the leather of his gloves creaked. Margot didn’t let him get a word out, warning, “Grab me again, Sovereign, and I swear to Glory, I’ll fry you.”
Margot turned back around to face Roger and found him staring at her through a mess of knotted curls. One sky blue eye was swollen shut, his left cheekbone was black and sickly green, and dried blood crusted the skin around his mouth and chin, the clear result of a mangled nose.
He didn’t even glance at the menacing elf over her shoulder when he croaked, “Are you the healer?”
Margot softened. “Yeah.”
He swallowed with obvious difficulty. Tears gleamed in the eye she could see when he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I don’t— I never would have—”
Stretching out her hand, she simply asked, “Do you consent?”
