Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5)(119)

She had to be parched. They’d barely been able to get a trickle down her throat, not wanting to risk her choking or freeing those iron teeth from wherever she kept them.

Manon studied the pitcher, then him. “Am I your prisoner, too?”

“My life debt is paid,” he said simply. “You’re nothing to me at all.”

“What happened,” she rasped. An order—and one he allowed her to make.

But he filled the glass, trying not to look like he was calculating her range in those chains as he handed it to her. No sign of her iron nails as her slim fingers wrapped around the cup. She winced slightly, winced a bit more as she lifted it to her still-pale lips—and drank. And drank.

She drained the glass. Dorian silently refilled it for her. Once. Twice. Thrice.

When she at last finished, he said, “Your wyvern flew straight as an arrow for us. You tumbled off the saddle and into the water barely fifty yards from our ship. How he found us, we don’t know. We got you out of the water—Rowan himself had to temporarily bind your stomach on the deck before we could even move you down here. It’s a miracle you’re not dead from blood loss alone. Never mind infection. We had you down here for a week, Aelin and Rowan working on you—they had to cut you open again in some spots to get the bad flesh out. You’ve been in and out of it since.”

Dorian didn’t feel like mentioning that he’d been the one who’d jumped into the water. He’d just … acted, as Manon had acted when she’d saved him in his tower. He owed her nothing less. Lysandra, in sea dragon form, had caught up to them moments later, and he’d held the water-heavy Manon in his arms as he’d climbed onto the shifter’s back. The witch had been so pale, and the wound on her stomach … He’d almost lost his breakfast at the sight of it. She looked like a fish who’d been sloppily gutted.

Gutted, Aelin had confirmed an hour later when she held up a small sliver of metal, by someone with very, very sharp iron nails.

None of them had mentioned that it might have been punishment—for saving him.

Manon was assessing the room with eyes quickly clearing. “Where are we.”

“On the sea.”

Aelin had ordered he not give her any information about their plans and whereabouts.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, wondering what, exactly, she might eat.

Indeed, those gold eyes slashed to his throat.

“Really?” He lifted a brow.

Her nostrils flared slightly. “Only for sport.”

“Aren’t you … partially human, at least?”

“Not in the ways that count.”

Right—because the other parts … Fae, Valg … It was Valg blood that had shaped the witches. The very prince that had infested him shared blood with her. From the black pit of his memory, images and words slithered out—of that prince seeing the gold eyes Dorian now met, screeching at him to get away … Eyes of the Valg kings. He said carefully, “So would you consider yourself more Valg than human, then?”

“The Valg are my enemy—Erawan is my enemy.”

“And does that make us allies?”

She revealed no indication either way. “Is there a young woman in your company named Elide?”

“No.” Who in hell was that? “We’ve never encountered anyone with that name.”

Manon closed her eyes for a heartbeat. Her slender throat bobbed. “Have you heard news of my Thirteen?”

“You’re the first rider and wyvern we’ve seen in weeks.” He contemplated why she’d asked, why she’d gone so still. “You don’t know if they’re alive.”

And with those iron shavings in her gut…

Manon’s voice was flat and cold as death. “Tell Aelin Galathynius not to bother using me for negotiations. The Blackbeak Matron will not acknowledge me, either as heir or witch, and all you will get out of it is revealing your precise location.”

His magic flickered. “What happened after Rifthold?”

Manon lay back down, angling her head away from him. Spindrift from the open porthole caught in her white hair and set it shimmering in the dim cabin. “Everything has a price.”

And it was those words, the fact that the witch had turned her face away and seemed to be waiting for death to claim her, that made him croon, “I once told you to find me again—it seems like you couldn’t wait to see my handsome face.”

Her shoulders stiffened slightly. “I’m hungry.”

He smiled slowly.

As if she’d heard that smile, Manon glared. “Food.”

But there was still an edge—a too-fragile edge limning every line of her body. Whatever had happened, whatever she had endured … Dorian draped an arm along the back of his chair. “It’s coming in a few minutes. I’d hate for you to waste away into nothing. It’d be a shame to lose the most beautiful woman in the world so soon into her immortal, wicked life.”

“I am not a woman,” was all she said. But hot temper laced those molten gold eyes.

He gave her an indolent shrug, perhaps only because she was indeed in chains, perhaps because, even though the death she radiated thrilled him, it did not strike a chord of fear. “Witch, woman … as long as the parts that matter are there, what difference does it make?”