Sandy Williams - The Shadow Reader

“I get plenty of respect.”

“But they don’t include you, do they? Don’t tell you their plans or the consequences of what you do for them. They’ve even forbidden you to speak their language.”

I raise my chin, trying to appear confident. It’s not an easy thing to do with a broken arm and bruised body, but his criticism gets my hackles up. “They’ve never locked me in a room and threatened my life.”

“Just because you don’t know you’re a prisoner doesn’t mean you aren’t one.”

“And your injuries are your fault,” Kelia tosses in.

I throw her a quick glare before returning my attention to Naito. “The Court takes care of me. It takes care of the Realm. It doesn’t burn families to death behind silver-painted walls.”

Naito’s nostrils flare at the reference to Brykeld, but he doesn’t say anything, so I press on. “It doesn’t hide in the homes of innocent fae or starve people to try to get its way.”

His eyebrows rise. “Starve people?”

“That’s what happens when you attack the gates. You’re disrupting commerce. Merchants are afraid to travel because of you.”

“You think we’re starving people?” He throws back his head and laughs. “You believe everything the Court tells you, don’t you?”

Oh, big mistake, buddy. Nothing sets me off like a condescending laugh. Not that I can do anything about it but simmer from my roost on my bed, but I’ll be damned if I ever help these people. Aren is responsible for the massacre at Brykeld, and I’ve seen the consequences of the rebels’ other actions. Their sporadic attacks on the gates have forced merchants to hire guards or journey solely by road to reach their destinations. The cost of that is passed on to the rest of the Realm, and not all the fae can pay the higher prices. Those who can’t, go days, sometimes weeks, without food.

“We’re not the reason people are going hungry,” Naito says when his laughter subsides. “People are going hungry because of Atroth and his taxes.”

“Taxes he has to charge to protect his people from Aren,” I retort. “False-bloods have always hurt the Realm. Your leader’s no exception.”

“Aren’s not a Descendant of the Tar Sidhe . Sethan is.”

“Look,” I say. “The lords of the provinces voted for King Atroth. He is a Descendant—nobody disputes that—so unless you have some aversion to democracy, he’s the rightful king.”

His expression darkens. “This isn’t America—”

“No, it’s Germany,” I interrupt, suddenly tired and more than a little cranky. “ And if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.”

He shakes his head. “Aren should have killed you.”

So much for getting sympathy from my fellow human. The rebels have completely brainwashed this guy.

He says something in Fae to Kelia. She responds, but I’m suddenly too distracted to decipher their words. Aren glowers in the doorway. Edarratae flash across a tensed jaw, briefly erasing the shadows on his face. They don’t lighten his mood, though. I can feel him seething from across the room. He strides forward, his hand strangling the hilt of the sword at his waist. He’s holding himself back. Barely.

“Leave,” he barks. He’s staring at me, but it’s clear he’s talking to Naito and Kelia. I want to beg them both to stay, but Naito takes Kelia’s arm. They’re walking out of the room already, leaving the door open by only a tiny crack.

Okay. Stay calm. There has to be something I can do or say to get out of whatever he plans to do to me. Should I apologize for trying to escape? Offer to read shadows for him? That’s why he’s kept me alive so far, for that and my knowledge of the Missing Gates, but giving in seems shameful. Kyol wouldn’t give in. He’d resist as long as possible, then . . .

Aren pulls a knife from his belt.

. . . or maybe he’d think me a fool for not doing whatever it takes to stay alive.

I open my mouth to make an offer that might buy me more time, but my words catch in my throat. Pain strikes through the right side of my rib cage when I cough, trying to clear an airway suddenly constricted with fear. Aren crouches down in front of me, silver eyes locked on mine.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Despite his low growl, he’s gentle when he slides the knife’s blade through the bandages wrapping my fractured arm. I suck in a breath when the splint and strips of cloth fall to the floor. It hurts, but not as much as it would if I hadn’t taken Kelia’s pills.

Carefully, Aren wraps both his hands around the break and awakens his magic. I grit my teeth to hold back a scream. Fire. That’s what his touch feels like. Hot, molten fire. If I weren’t staring at my arm, I’d swear my flesh was turning black and crisp beneath his fingers.

When the agony increases, my left hand darts out to grip Aren’s shoulder. I dig my nails into his muscle, squeeze my eyes shut. Instinct begs me to shove him away, but I’ve been through this before. King Atroth has three healers in his Court, and I almost died that first year I read the shadows, trying to track down the false-blood Thrain.

The pain vanishes. Oh, yes, the arm still aches, but the fire’s gone and I’m able to breathe again.

Aren’s hands are still on me, though. I can’t help but notice his knuckles are swollen and dirty, the skin over them broken. Blood, sweat, and dirt invade a deep gash running from his wrist to his elbow. He needs to take care of that. Before it becomes infected.

He finally releases my arm, and then lays his hand on top of mine, which still clings to his shoulder. I loosen my grip and pull back, my fingers sliding out from under his.

I swallow once, twice, then find my voice. “Why not?”

An edarratae flashes across his jaw. “Why not what?”

“Why aren’t you going to hurt me?”

His eyes meet mine, linger a beat too long, before he looks away. “Lena’s already done that.”

“You didn’t do anything when I climbed out the window, either,” I point out.

He sits beside me on the bed. “You want me to hurt you?”

“No.” I drop my eyes to my injured arm in time to see a pair of blue lightning bolts flash across my skin where the break had been. That’s freaky. Aren’s no longer touching me. The chaos lusters shouldn’t still be there. I rub my hand over my arm as if I can wipe them away.

“I’ve left the amajur , the magic, in you,” he says. “It’s still working to mend the fracture. It’ll fade in a few minutes. Where else are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” I don’t remember the magic of the king’s healers doing that, but then, I was only half-conscious at the time.

“Where else are you hurt?” Aren demands more forcefully this time.

I hesitate, then say, “My ribs and back.”

His gaze travels down to my shirt. Uh-uh. No way am I taking it off. When he moves toward me, I grab the front hem, holding it down tight. He pauses, then leans behind me to lift the back of the material.

“You may keep your shirt on.”

“Thanks,” I snap, but I let my shirt rise enough for him to slide the back up to my shoulders. His fingers skate lightly down my ribs and then slowly back up, inspecting my injuries. He does the same to my left side even though I’m not hurt there, and I shiver under his touch.

“Not fractured,” he says. “This won’t hurt like mending bone.” He presses his palm against the worst of my bruises and the heat of his magic seeps into me. A blue glow fans out just above my hip and a luster flickers across my bare stomach. No, it doesn’t hurt. It tingles in an unpleasantly pleasant way.

Behind me, Aren breathes deeply. He leans forward. When I feel his breath hot on the back of my neck, I stiffen. I’m a girl, he’s a guy, and we’re alone in this room. He’s ten times stronger than I am. He can do whatever he wants and even if I scream, it’s unlikely anyone will come to my rescue.