The Bridge Kingdom (The Bridge Kingdom, #1)(33)

No way out.

Except up.

Fear binding her in place, she lifted her head to see faceless figures staring down at her.

So far away. With her wrists tied so tight the skin sloughed off, there was no way to climb.

“Why have you come to Ithicana? What is your purpose? Are you a spy for your father?”

“To be queen.” Her throat burned, so dry. So thirsty. “To be a bride of peace. I am no spy.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not.”

Sand struck her in the face. Not just tiny grains, but chunks of rock that bruised and sliced. Forcing her to cringe. To grovel. Eleven shovels flung sand at her from all sides. Striking her. Hurting her. Filling the hole.

Burying her alive.

“Tell us the truth!”

“I am!” The sand was up to her chin.

“Liar!”

She couldn’t breathe.

She was seated on a chair, her wrists bound together. Her nails picked and scratched at the ropes, blood trickling down her palms. Fabric covered her eyes, but she could feel the heat of flames.

“They will do worse to you in Ithicana, Lara,” Serin’s voice crooned in her ear. “Far worse.” He whispered the horrors, and she screamed, needing to get away. Needing to escape.

“Worse things will be done to your sisters,” he sang, pulling off her hood.

There was fire in her eyes. Burning. Burning. Burning.

“You will not touch my sisters,” she screamed. “You cannot have them. You will not hurt them.”

Except it was Marylyn holding the coals to her feet, not Serin. Sarhina, tears running down her face, who tightened the noose.

And it was Lara who was burning. Her hair. Her clothes. Her flesh.

She could not breathe.

A hand was gripping her, shaking her. “Lara? Lara!”

Lara reached up, catching hold of the hilt of her knife, remembering herself just in time to stop from stabbing Aren in the face.

“You were having a nightmare. Eli fetched me when they heard you screaming.”

A nightmare. Lara took a deep breath, digging deep into her core for some semblance of calm. Only then did she see the door hanging crooked on its frame, the latch in pieces scattered across the floor. Aren wore the same clothes he had earlier, his hair damp and clinging to his forehead.

Tearing her eyes away, Lara reached for a water glass, her mouth tasting sour from too much brandy. “I can’t remember anything.” A lie, given the smell of burning hair still filled her nose. Nightmares that weren’t dreams, but memories of her training. Had she said anything incriminating? Had he realized she was reaching for the knife under her pillow?

Aren nodded, but his brow furrowed, suggesting that he didn’t quite believe her. The sweat-soaked sheets peeled off her skin as she leaned out of the bed to fill her glass with the water pitcher, knowing the nightgown she wore only barely covered her breasts and hoping the flash of skin would distract him.

“Who did that to you?”

Lara froze, certain in an instant that she had shouted something damning while caught in her fugue state. Her eyes skipped to the open door, calculating her chances of escape, but then his fingers grazed the skin of her back, following a familiar pattern. Scars, which her sister Sarhina had rubbed oil into every night for years until they’d faded into thin white lines.

“Who did this?” The heat in his voice made her skin prickle.

Serin had ordered it done after she’d snuck out of the compound and into the desert to watch one of the caravans as it passed, countless camels and men laden with goods to sell in Vencia. For her troubles, she’d received a dozen lashes, Serin screaming the entire time that she’d put everything at risk. Lara had never entirely understood why he’d been so angry. There’d been no chance of the caravan catching sight of her, and all she’d wanted was to see what goods they carried.

“My teachers were strict,” she muttered. “But it was a long time ago. I almost forget they’re there.”

Rather than appeasing him, Aren only appeared to grow angrier. “Who treats a child this way?”

Lara opened her mouth, then closed it, no good answer coming to mind. All of her sisters had suffered beatings for infractions, though none as often as she. “I was a disobedient child.”

“And they thought to beat the trait out of you?” His voice was icy.

Pulling the sheet up to cover her body, Lara didn’t answer. Didn’t trust herself to.

“For what it’s worth, no one will lay a hand on you in Ithicana. You have my word.” Rising, he picked up the lamp. “Dawn is only a few hours away. Try to get some sleep.” He left the room, pulling the broken door shut behind him.

Lara lay in bed, listening to the soothing patter of rain against the window, still feeling the trace of Aren’s fingers on her bare skin. Still hearing the adamancy in his voice that she’d never be hurt in Ithicana, a promise so entirely at odds with everything she knew about him and his kingdom. His word means shit, she reminded herself. He gave his word to allow Maridrina free trade, and all her homeland had to show for it was rotten meat.

Her goal was the bridge. Finding a way past Ithicana’s defenses and into the structure coveted by all. And today, Aren was taking her on a tour of his kingdom. With luck, she’d see how they traveled, where and how they launched their boats, where their civilians were located. It was the first step toward a successful invasion. The first step toward Maridrina returning to prosperity.