Chapter 9 · Ashes and Spiked Broth

Garrick knocked again. Three soft taps, patient and polite.

My skin crawled anyway.

"My lord," he said through the oak. "The healer's broth. You wanted it the second the captive woke."

Vane's thumb was still on my throat. Blood on the pad of it. Mine. His chest slammed against my ribs with every breath, hot as a forge.

He didn't move.

"She's bleeding, isn't she?" Garrick added, almost kind. "I can smell it from here."

I went cold all over.

The door was bolted. Three iron bolts, I'd counted them. He couldn't see my neck. He couldn't smell through a foot of oak and iron, not that clearly. Not unless he'd been standing there a while.

Vane peeled himself off me.

It was like losing a blanket in a blizzard. I hated that I noticed. I hated that the new brand on my neck throbbed once, hard, like it wanted him back.

I yanked the torn collar of my shirt up with my free hand. The chain on my other wrist rattled.

"Stay," Vane said. Rough. Like gravel in a bucket.

"I'm chained to a bedpost, genius. Where would I go?"

His eyes flicked to me. Gold rimmed the black.