My heart thuds painfully in my chest, cold dread freezing my lungs. I recognize the tension in Father’s shoulders, the white-knuckled grip of one hand around the other, the tight lines around his mouth.
“I’m afraid you’re not taking me seriously,” Father murmurs, his voice a silken threat.
With a casual wave of his hand, Father summons a sloshing ball of water. It spirals through the air, swirling and compressing until the outline is a smooth sphere.
My breath stutters.
I know what comes next.
The translucent orb floats through the air—then submerges Zev’s head. My husband doesn’t move, doesn’t struggle. The only outward sign of its effect are the bulging tendons in his neck. Small bubbles escape from his mouth and float to the top as he slowly releases air.
I haven’t taken a breath myself.
Minutes pass.
His shoulders vibrate, veins cording in his arms. His eyes widen, neck bobbing futilely.
My hands clench into tight fists, nails digging so hard into my palms that I’m sure I’ve drawn blood. I could wield the water, make a small pocket of air, just enough so he can—
A soft hand on my shoulder startles me. “Come inside, Princess,” Vy murmurs. “You should not watch this.”
I shrug her hand off.
I have to watch. I did this.
I don’t know how long it’s been. Zev’s face is dark and splotchy inside the bubble of water. He’s out of air. His lungs must be burning. My husband had been right—death by lightning is nothing compared to this cruelty. His head swings from side to side, thrashing in his restraints, trying to escape drowning on land.
But it’s no use.
A deafening crash, like angry waves battering an iceberg, rings in my ears, drowning out the jeers of the warriors. They watch him suffer like he’s a tidesdamned spectacle for their enjoyment.
An eternity later, Father lets the sphere drop.
Zev gasps for air, violently coughing up water. His hair is drenched, slicked against his forehead in dark swirls, his skin pale.
“Princess, please.” Vy is more insistent now, but I ignore her. My breath wrenches through my lungs, leaving behind a harrowing tightness.
“How many soldiers are stationed at the border?”
Zev hasn’t stopped coughing, but he still manages to be an idiot.
“Three”—cough—“but your pathetic warriors”—cough—“wouldn’t last ten minutes”—cough—“against them.”
Father submerges Zev’s head again.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of healing and shoveling food down my throat and willing it not to come back up. Father calls me into his tent to discuss strategies, though I barely hear a word. Muffled grunts and the agonizing sound of fists striking flesh bombard me.
The warriors are taking turns pummeling Zev again.
Bile rises in my throat, hot and punishing.
“…promise them a third of our food stores?” I catch the end of Father’s sentence. He’s talking about convincing Volca to ally with us. Or at least, that’s what I assume.
“We won’t survive. Our stores are lean enough as they are, and that’s including what Arbinj has sent us,” Sorka responds. “We won’t be getting the third shipment from them now.”
Muffled laughter.
A shrill blaring in my ears.
Five repeated thuds, and a mocking jeer.
The distinct sound of crunching bone.
I think my heart might give out, it’s racing so fast. Violent streams of acid climb up my throat.
I can’t contain it. My head swings to the side, and I retch all over the floor in great, heaving shudders.
“Princess!” Sorka darts over, sweeping my hair from my face and rubbing a large hand over my back. “Are you ill?”
I wipe my mouth.
Father hasn’t moved. He just regards me with his cold, unreadable stare.
“Are you with child?” Ice is warmer than Father’s voice.
“No.”
“Are you cert—”
“I’m a healer,” I snap. “I think I’d know.”
That’s his concern? Not if I were violated, but if I ended up with child?
Before he can react, I stumble from the tent, heading for the men loitering around Zev.
Vy intercepts me before I can reach them.
“Not here, Princess,” she whispers, pulling me into our tent. “Lay down. You don’t look well. I’ll handle those men.”
She draws the blanket around my shoulders, then disappears through the flap.
It’s dark when I wake—Vy is asleep beside me.
I edge toward the tent flap, easing it open. The night sky is clear, stars twinkling overhead. It clashes with the turmoil in the chest, this gnawing ache that has only grown stronger with every passing day. With every new bruise on my husband’s body.
Zev’s slumped in his chains, asleep, chin tucked against his chest. My heart tightens with concern. Did Vy manage to distract the warriors lined up to use him as a punching bag?
I’ve nearly taken a step into the clearing when I freeze—Father stalks out of his tent, heading toward the wooden platform where Zev is bound. I quickly close the flap, peeking through the slivered opening.
Father’s knees crack as he climbs the platform. Zev doesn’t stir. Father regards him for a moment, then viciously kicks his boot. My husband startles awake, head snapping up. His eyes sharpen quickly, sleep blinked away, when he sees Father standing before him.
“You interrupted my dream, Tormik,” he wheezes. Shit. More broken ribs. “And it was delightful.”
For a beat, Father just stares at him.
“Did you touch my daughter?”
Zev breaks into a salacious grin. “Tormik, please. That’s between me and my wife.”
A sharp crack reverberates through me as Father backhands Zev.
“Answer me! Did. You. Hurt. Her.”
The mock playfulness vanishes from Zev’s face. “What did you think was going to happen to her?” he seethes, face twisted with rage even as his voice cracks with pain. “When you wrapped her in a bow and gifted her to your enemy? Where did this sudden concern come from, Tormik?”
“You despicable bastard,” Father hisses, knuckles white around his staff.
“You’re the one who sent your daughter to your enemy’s bed. Whatever she’s endured, it’s by your hand.”
The sky rumbles, low and ominous, then—
—a bolt of lightning strikes the ground a few feet behind the platform.
A startled gasp escapes me.
And my world burns to ash.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
ASHRILL RINGING BLARES IN my ears, sharp and relentless.
The sky had been clear moments ago—inky black night stretching endlessly overhead. No clouds. No warning.
So where did the lightning come from?
The flash still burns behind my eyes, seared into my vision.
My gasp caught Father’s attention. His head snaps toward me, ice-blue eyes narrowing. Zev follows a beat later.
“Mayah…” Father starts.
Wind slams into me as I barrel out, the tent flap snapping like a whip behind me. My legs tremble as I approach him.
The lightning couldn’t have been Zev. He’s bound with iron.
A fractured sob escapes me, and I know.
I just know.
“It was you,” I whisper, edging closer.
“Mayah,” Father says again, and it’s his stern voice, the one he uses when I haven’t lived up to his standards. “You’re confused.”
I am livid, is what I am.
“The lightning. I saw it. It was you.”
Father descends from the platform and strides toward me. His hands rest on my shoulders, but I shove him away.
“All those nights I spent cowering in my bed,” I whisper. “Those storms. They were you. You’re a stormwielder.”
His lips twist with barely repressed rage. “Calm down. You’re drawing attention,” he hisses.
