Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 152616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 763(@200wpm)___ 610(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 763(@200wpm)___ 610(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
He said something too low for me to really hear. My gaze swept over what I could see of his bent body. He was breathing too hard, too fast. Concern rippled through me. “I didn’t know what condition you’d be in when I came to help.” I glanced at the red, seeping wound along his arm. He had . . . he’d pulled his limbs free from the spikes. “I removed the spike from your chest.”
There was no response.
“My lord?” I whispered, the concern growing into full-blown anxiety.
Silence.
“Are you all right?” I cringed the moment the question left my mouth. Of course he wasn’t all right. He’d just been drugged, beaten, and impaled to a table.
Biting down on my lip, I leaned forward as I lifted my hands. Carefully, I brushed the hair back from his face—
I gasped, jerking in horror. The striking lines of his face were contorted in pain. His eyes were open— at least that was what I thought, but I couldn’t be sure, because what I saw was just pink, raw, and seeping flesh where eyes should be.
“They took them,” he breathed.
A frayed sort of sound choked me as I stared at him, unable to comprehend how that could be done to anyone. How someone could inflict such damage, such pain. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my own eyes stinging. “I’m so sorry— ”
“Stop,” he grunted, rocking back, out of my reach. “You have . . . nothing to apologize for if you . . . didn’t do this.”
A hole opened up in my own chest. “I’m still sorry.”
“Don’t be. They’re already growing back.” Another shudder went through him. “Regenerating.”
I lowered my hands to my lap. “That’s . . . that’s reassuring.” I swallowed, wincing at the dull ache in my throat. “I think.”
He made a sound I thought might be a laugh, but then fell silent, his breathing slowing.
I glanced at the opening to the stall. “We should— ”
“Are you hurt?” he barked.
I gave a little jump. “W-What?”
That deep, skin-chilling sound rumbled from him again. “Did I hurt you? When I grabbed you?”
“No,” I whispered.
His head tilted up, and a few strands of hair fell to the side, revealing just the height of one sharp cheekbone and one eye that no longer looked as raw and mangled. “You lie.”
“N-No, I don’t.”
“You’re rubbing your throat. The same throat I was just seconds away from crushing.”
My fingers stilled. His reminder was unnecessary, but could he see now? I dropped my hand.
Several more moments passed. Neither of us moved or spoke, and I needed to get moving. So did he. I peeked at the door again.
“I’m sorry.”
A jolt ran through me as my gaze flew back to him.
“When I came to, I . . . just reacted,” he continued gruffly, his hands falling to his thighs. “I wasn’t in my right mind. Thought . . . you had . . . something to do with this.”
I stared at him, intuition silent, as it normally was when it came to Hyhborn, but his apology sounded genuine.
The creak of rusty hinges came from the front of the barn, jerking my attention to the opening. My stomach lurched. That was likely not a rat. Dread surged through me. No one could see me here, with him.
“Stay here,” I whispered, pushing off the floor as the Lord slowly turned at the waist, to the opening of the stall.
As I hurried past him, I didn’t know what I was going to do or say if someone had entered, but as powerful as any Hyhborn lord was, he was gravely wounded. He was likely going to be of little help.
I stepped into the center aisle, my hands trembling. One barn door was half open. I saw nothing as I crept forward, lifting my hood. Wind could’ve picked up outside, blowing the door open. That was completely possible. I neared the two front stalls, muscles beginning to relax. It had to be—
The shadow darted out of the left stall. I lurched back, but wasn’t quick enough. A hand clamped down on my arm, giving it a painful jerk.
“What are you doing in here?”
The gasp of pain turned to one of recognition as I reached back, grabbing his arm. I knew this voice. It was Weber, one of the bakery workers in town, who always flirted with the paramours when he brought fresh pastries that Claude loved— ones he swore no one else could make as well. He was a large man— burly, knuckles bruised, always swollen from the boxing matches held in one of the gambling dens by the wharf.
His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back. “Tell me.”
“You’re hurting me,” I rasped.
“Girl, I’m gonna do worse than that if you don’t answer me.” Weber dragged me farther into the stall, angling me away from the entrance as he folded his other arm around my neck. “You shouldn’t be in here.”