Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

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D O YOU STILL WANT TO TALK TONIGHT, OR DO YOU want to sleep off the whiskey and cider?" Cayden asks as we enter the suite, his tone back to being playful.

"We'll talk, but I'm taking a bath first because I smell like ale." My hand plucks at my drenched neckline. The walk back helped sober me up, and the five of us went down to the kitchens for some water and bread before retiring for the night.

"I'll grab some fresh linen and place it beside the tub, my lady." Hyacinth curtsies and exits the bathing chamber.

"Wait!" I call out, and she pops her head back in. "I took some extra chocolates from the kitchens for you and left them on my vanity."

"Thank you." She blinks slowly, and her cheeks flush as a shy smile graces her lips. "I'll be sure to enjoy them when I return."

I step out of my gown and sink into the bath, pouring another glass of water from the pitcher beside me and drinking half before setting it aside. My head doesn't feel as fuzzy as it did at the tavern, and I've had enough water that I won't be hungover tomorrow, which is a blessing. The door creaks open behind me, and I remember wanting to ask Hyacinth about the curlers.

"I was wondering if you could teach me ho—" My sentence is cut off when a pair of rough hands grips my shoulders and shoves me under the water. The tub is so deep that it doesn't take much to submerge me, and my legs aren't long enough to reach the end. I push against the bottom, fighting to breach the surface, but the person holding me down has incredible strength.

I choke on soapy water, and my chest burns from the lack of air in my lungs. I give up trying to shove myself above the water and attempt to pry their hands off. It's no use. Another pathetic choke escapes my lips—the bubbles rise, mocking me. I reach toward the side table and grip the crystal pitcher, slamming it over my assailant's head in a desperate attempt to free myself. Their hands move from my shoulders and latch on to my neck, squeezing hard. The light blurs above the water. I feel like I did in my cell all those years ago, looking out at the world through a sliver between stones. I can't die like this. Not when I'm so close to seeing my dragons again.

My hands pad against the bottom of the tub, and I curl my fingers around a shard of glass from the pitcher's handle. I plunge the glass into their wrist, and blood clouds the water around me. I pull it out and plunge it in again, cutting a vertical line down their arm. If I die, I'm taking my assailant with me. I'll give them a wound so deep that even their soul will wear it in the afterlife. They may think they found me powerless, but I'm never defenseless. I would've used my teeth if I had to. The blood grows thicker in the tub, obscuring my vision until a deep red cloud surrounds me.

The hands vanish from my body, and I haul myself forward, coughing water onto the floor while clinging to the porcelain like a lifeline. A pair of strong arms wrap around me, and my head is buried into a warm neck while I take in heavy gulps of air.

"Secure the fucking perimeter!" Cayden commands someone beyond the door.

"Is she hurt?" Ryder's rattled voice filters in.

"I have her. Go now!" he barks.

"Cayden," I wheeze.

"You're safe now, angel." He pulls me closer, and my chest presses into the side of the tub. "Elowen . . . the blood, is it yours?" His tone is frantic. One arm stays wrapped around me, holding me upright, but the other slides toward my head and gently pulls me from the crook of his neck. He cradles my face in his rough hand—the gentle touch is so opposite to the feel of him, all hard muscles, sharp lines, and glares. I didn't think Cayden could look like this . . . so distressed.

"It's not my blood," I manage through my raspy throat. His eyes flash toward my neck, and the way his nostrils flare leads me to believe bruises are already forming. My body starts to tremble as my brain catches up to the gravity of what just happened. Cayden must have slit his throat because a wide arc of blood drips down from the wall, and a man lies crumpled in a crimson puddle on the tile floor. "I'm fine. It's not my first encounter with an assassin."

He removes his hands from me, but not his gaze. His distress has morphed into rage and I'm thankful I'm not his enemy. Cayden's anger could end worlds and remake them. In all his chaos, there is calculation and contemplation. He's a fierce fighter, but his intelligence sets him apart from others. "That man didn't suffer enough, but I assure you anyone else involved in this plot will die a thousand deaths before I grant it."

I nod, droplets from my hair sending ripples in the bloody bath, still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that when I needed help, Cayden ran to me. Even if he only did it for my dragons and the war, he's here even after he knows I'm all right, kneeling on the glass-ridden floor.

"I'm going to lift you from the tub now," he says softly.

"I can stand." I shift my legs beneath me and glass shards I'm unable to see through the red water slide against the bottom.

"You'll cut your feet open." He reaches into the tub and lightly brushes his fingers over a spot to ensure there's no glass before holding his hands in front of me. "Guide my hands. I don't want to touch you anywhere you don't want me to. If you step on a piece of glass, I'll keep you steady or lift you before it cuts deep. My eyes will be on yours the entire time. Then, once you're stable, I can reach for the robe on the hook." He pauses momentarily, eyes flashing to the marks on my neck before meeting mine again. "Let me help you, El."

Vulnerability isn't an option for those who have licked kindness and humanity off knives, but our blades are pointed at the same enemy, and his eyes hold no judgment. He hears the words that I don't have to say. It's what pushes me to close my hands around his wrists and guide his hands to my hips. His face inches closer to mine, so close that our foreheads press together. His eyes dilate, and I hear his slight intake of breath when I wrap my arms around his neck.

"If your eyes wander, I'll cut them out myself." My breathless tone doesn't convey the gravity of my threat.

"They won't," he states in a low, gravelly tone. "Ready?"

"Mm-hmm." I don't trust my voice.

Slowly . . . so slowly, he tightens his hold and eases me to my feet. Our eyes remain locked, but I don't think I could look away if I tried. There's something mesmerizing about his gaze. His breathing deepens when I'm steady on my feet, and his hands linger until he's sure no glass pierces me under my full weight. Then, just as promised, he reaches to the side without ever taking his eyes off mine. He slides the ivory satin robe behind my shoulders, and his fingers brush down my arms while I fasten the sash.

"I'm still wearing my boots, so I'm going to carry you." His raspy voice sends a shock through my body and makes me want to press my legs together. How can he make me want to stab him one second and then feel like this? I don't even want to label exactly what this feeling is. I just know it's overwhelming, suffocating, and forbidden.

He steps back and hoists me in his arms, settling me against his chest. I take one last look at the corpse painting the tile in a portrait of his demise before Cayden carries me from my chambers.