Chapter Eleven

I choked on blood, spitting and swallowing the damn stuff in equal measures. I wasn't sure if it was from the knife I'd received in my side a few minutes ago, or the beating that was currently still being inflicted, fists sinking into my stomach and back without relief.

Then someone yanked out the knife – although they twisted it for good measure as they did so – and I roared out in pain and frustration, slumping against my restraints.

"Almost a scream, hmm? Come on big guy, I know you can give me more than that."

A hand slapped at my cheek as if to rouse me, but I didn't bother to open my eyes. The healer's Touch would tell him whether I was awake or unconscious, and he was always sure to bring me back if I began to slip away.

"You've been at it for two weeks," a new voice drawled. I knew each of my torturers: how they liked to inflict specific pain, how long it took them to get bored, what they sounded like when they were excited, or tired, or pissed off. This man had never visited me before. "Two weeks, and you still haven't broken him?"

The air in the basement changed as an awkward tension filtered through it. Despite everything, I was intrigued enough to crack an eye, determinedly not looking down at my damaged body or any of the bloody implements lying on tables around us.

"Sir," someone mumbled, but the stranger gestured for him to be quiet, his eyes fixed on the healer at my side. A silverish scar ran across his neck and it was clear from the way he had his collar low and his long hair pulled back that the man was proud of the wound.

He probably had cause to be. A scar that wide and long indicated his throat had been slit to the bone, and I was sure that the only reason he stood before us now was magic. A Touch that had kept him alive and yet hadn't healed the skin? A result of limited magical power or a deliberate choice, perhaps for the intimidation it granted in its reminder?

"Sir," acknowledged the healer, saluting the senior rebel with a hand stained crimson with my blood. "This one has proven...resilient." He sounded almost like he was sulking, and I might have laughed if I didn't feel like my insides had imploded.

"Then I overestimated you."

The healer bristled.

I'd been cut. Whipped. Beaten. Starved. Sliced, carved, stabbed. Entreated to detailed threats about what they'd do to Ren if they caught him before I gave him up. Forced to listen to them colourfully describe how he'd become a plaything for the men until his body gave out from the abuse. Similar threats were frequently levelled my way too, but either it was all bluster or they were too afraid to loosen my binds in order to properly have their fun with me. That wasn't to say my cock and ass were left alone – they also formed part of the torturous attentions of my captors – but when the alternative was spilling what I knew of Ren and Mathias' intentions in heading towards the Temarian border, it was just something I had to quietly endure.

"More," the new man ordered, his eyes flickering to mine. Unlike the others, Sir didn't look gratified by my suffering. Only irritated. "Don't let him rest until he speaks. I want my hands around the prince's skinny little neck by the end of the week, and then we'll see where all that Aratorre smugness disappears to."

"Jiron!"

I shook my head. They weren't getting Ren. I'd give my life for his a thousand times over, and my suffering was nothing compared to the pain that splintered my heart with the mere thought of giving him up. Never mind that if all had gone to plan, him and Mathias would now be deep in Temarian territory, likely beyond the reach of these Quarehian rebels. Because if they had been delayed, or stopped at the border, my betrayal could cost them their lives, and no amount of agony I could suffer was worth that.

Head bowed, fists clenched, wrists and ankles straining against my restraints, I waited for what I knew was coming.

"Jiron?"

That voice...it didn't belong here. It lived in a better time, a time of sunshine and picnic food and impossibly cheery smiles.

The men closed in on me with sickeningly anticipatory expressions and sharp implements still slick with my blood. Everything I saw and smelled and felt told me that I was still in that mildewed room, every inch of my skin graced with bruises and cuts and burns, but...

"Jiron, please!"

Wyatt?

He sounded scared.

My boy needed me! But I couldn't help. My body was broken; ribs cracked, bones snapped, and-

My boy needed me.

With a roar, I yanked myself free and surged forward, throwing my whole weight at my enemies. Then I blinked when the dim, gruesome scene of my torture was replaced with the sunny vista of a tree-lined clearing, long grasses and wildflowers surrounding a picnic blanket and basket.

Our picnic blanket and basket.

"Wyatt!" I yelled as I caught sight of him across the clearing, his beautiful face creased in fear as a stranger closed in on him with my sword held aloft.

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