Four Dead Queens(83)

He shook his head. “I’ve taken some heavy Eonist pain blockers. But I could use a”—he grinned wryly—“hand.” He pulled a roll of bandages from his pocket, his fingers shuddering.

Arebella nodded and began wrapping his hands gingerly.

Up close, they looked worse, charred and broken. They wouldn’t heal. Couldn’t. What was left of the skin smelled like coal. She wanted to scrunch up her nose and turn away, but she forced herself not to.

When she’d finished dressing his hands, she said, “Don’t worry. When I’m queen, I’ll provide a dose of HIDRA.” Arebella wouldn’t have to discuss her decisions with anyone else. She could make the rules as she wanted. “I’ll heal you.”

If he kept his charred skin, there was a chance to revive it, but if they amputated his hands, there would be no repairing them. And Mackiel was so good with his hands; it would be a shame to cut them off.

“I know you will,” he said. “My queen.”

Arebella’s face broke into a beaming smile.

“Has the news spread to the people?” she asked, her hands wandering under his shirt to the skin beneath.

She sighed as she skimmed her hand across the smooth planes of his chest. The contact calmed her mind, allowing her to focus on one thought at a time—a powerful effect and one of the reasons she loved him.

She would help his pain by distracting him, and he could help her.

Mackiel moaned in reply. “No word has left the palace. They must be keeping the murders quiet until they find female blood relatives.”

She moved her hands lower and his head fell to her shoulder, hot breaths against her neck. “But they won’t find any female relatives.”

“No . . .” he breathed out. “None remain. No one but you . . .”

“And our assassin?”

“Perfect,” he managed to reply. “Swift, silent and deadly.”

Hearing her plans coming to fruition was a blissful release, like rain after a sweltering summer’s day. Her mind was cool, calm. She would do anything to keep that feeling. The plan she’d set in motion at fourteen was finally coming together. Her plan to save the Jetée. Her plan to tear down the walls and share resources across the quadrants. And her plan to be the one, and only, queen of Quadara. She trembled at the thought of how good that would feel.

Perhaps it would permanently calm her mind.

“It will be over before—” His voice faltered as she pushed her body up against him, careful not to touch his hands. “Before the week is out. It’s been difficult with so many people in the palace. It could be sooner if the assassin has the opportunity to make the kills.”

“As we planned.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She pulled his mouth to hers.

The rest was lost between heated breaths and low moans.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE





Keralie



My body took over as my mind raced. I fled from the fire, from the images burning behind my lids. I wasn’t sure where I was running to, but I needed space from Queen Corra’s terrified eyes, in case she pointed a finger at me.

Too late. Too late.

People filled the passages as the smoke filtered down the corridor. Still, no one stopped me as I ran by. They scattered in various directions, their eyes wide, panicked, as if they’d never seen the palace passageways before . . .

The processing room! They were fleeing the processing room! How did they get out?

Now free, they shoved and screamed at each other as they bolted. But they were going the wrong way. There was nothing inside the palace but death. No wonder they weren’t interested in me—I was another lost soul roaming the hallways.

I dodged the frantic bodies as I pushed against the tide. There was no hope behind me.

Get in quick. Get out quicker.

I’d been here far too long.

An arm snagged my waist, pulled me into an adjoining room and closed the door behind us.

“Varin!” I cried at the sight of him. My breath shuddered out of my lungs.

His eyes darted across my face, his cheeks flushed. “I lost the inspector in the crowd. But I ran into Christon. He said the palace visitors overpowered the guards. They couldn’t escape out the shielded exit; instead they broke into the palace, hoping to find another way out.”

“There is no other way out,” I said. I’d created this chaos. I never should’ve informed them of Queen Iris’s murder. If anyone else got hurt, it was on me.

Too much blood on my hands.

“Did you find Queen Corra in time?” he asked.

I shook my head. I didn’t need to say anything further.

“This isn’t your fault,” he said.

I turned away. “It’s always my fault.”

Before I knew what was happening, Varin enveloped me in his arms. Instantly, my body went rigid, but the embrace was familiar, like a long-ago memory.

And it was a long-ago memory. My mother used to give me the best hugs. She’d stand with her arms around me, her head on top of mine, for minutes on end, with neither of us saying anything. She had the gift of communicating without words. I’d never felt more loved than when in her embrace. My father had been different. Even when we would argue, he’d always end the conversation with I love you more than my boat loves a twelve-knot wind and a warm sea. Back then, I’d claim to have no idea what he meant, but I’d been lying. Regardless of my choices, my parents loved me. Until the accident.