To Bind in Blood

Chapter 44

Wrell woke with a gasp of air, images of cloaked figures with covered faces flitting across her vision and fading into the dim light of a place she knew was not the tent she and Jurion shared. She was in a small, round tent, unheated and dark except for a lantern sitting on the ground a short distance away. Her hands were bound behind her back, her ankles tied as well. She struggled to sit up on the rug covering a dirt floor.

Her thoughts still hazy, she replayed the most recent events in her mind. She remembered stepping outside for a bit of air when she had woken in the middle of the night, unable to stay asleep. Jurion had stirred; she had told him to go back to sleep. She had taken a few steps outside, the guards with her all the way, and had wandered over to check on the horses.

And then the figures appeared out of nowhere, knocking out her guards and grabbing her while somehow remaining quiet. She'd succumbed to blackness not long after that.

Wrell shifted, her eyes darting about the room. Her chest ached, only proving how far she was from Jurion. What would he do when he discovered she was gone? The guards, whether dead or alive, would serve as evidence that she had not left on her own accord. And she knew in her heart that he would feel that something was wrong.

The tent flap lifted, startling her. A tall figure entered. "Done with your nap?" a voice said in accented Quellen. It was disorienting, hearing her language spoken from a foreign tongue. The man was clearly Reman; she could see Remas's crest on his breastplate.

Behind him came another man, this figure broad and muscular where the other was tall and lanky. This one she recognized. The sight of him sent a hot rush of anger throughout her.

"Wrell Draekon," Cicerus drawled. "Did my soldiers kidnap the wrong woman?"

"You know this woman, General?" the Reman said.

Cicerus nodded, his eyes skimming Wrell's form. "She was the Great Lord's bloodbound servant, before his bind to the empress. But now that she is dead, I see you have resumed your former position? You are still his servant?"

"No."

He seized her hand, held her freshly-scarred palm up to her face. "Don't lie to me."

She lifted her chin. "I am his bloodbound."

"Then in what manner?"

"In marriage."

There was a great pause, and then Cicerus laughed. "I did not expect the Great Lord to take a former servant as a wife. And a disfigured one at that." He knelt before her, grasping her face in his hand and turning it side to side. He pried the collar of her shirt down to expose the scars winding down her neck. "Of all the women Jurion Calustus could have . . . he certainly has strange taste."

She gritted her teeth. Told herself to ignore their taunts, push down the nausea, the familiar feeling that threatened to overtake her. "He will come," she bit out, forcing herself to look him in the eye. "He does not give up easily."

Cicerus's fingers moved to brush over her scarred cheek. "Surely your beloved Creator would give your Great Lord a more fitting woman to be his wife."

She was unable to hide her flinch. Her fingernails dug into her palms, her hands still tied, and the pain kept her from descending into those maddening, self-destructive thoughts.

Her Creator had chosen her. Loved her. Declared her his precious creation. Her scars did not matter.

And of all the people Jurion Calustus, Great Lord of Quelle, could have chosen, he had chosen her-despite her flaws and weakness.

She tried to imagine the feel of Jurion's warm, callused hand against her cheek, accepting the scars. Breathing life into her with words of the Creator's love. Jurion himself loving her for who she was. The sensation was fleeting. She inhaled, as if holding her breath would make it stay, until it faded and all she could feel was Cicerus's disgust as he stroked her cheek in morbid fascination.