Tempest bared her teeth and ducked away, slashing at the giant’s abdomen.
“Stupid little wench!” the giant growled.
Tempest panted, keeping both men in her sight. Her legs wobbled. She shouldn’t have trained so hard today.
Dig deeper. You’re not weak.
Her fingers clenched her daggers. She hadn’t broken for Mal, the Jester, or King Destin. She would not break now, especially to such unsavory brigands. If she gave them the slightest bit of weakness, they’d tear her limb from limb.
“So, boys, are you just going to stand there all day, or can we crack on?”
Her words did the trick. It riled both men, and they attacked.
She fell into a dance of sorts, defending herself. Her arms were shaking, and sweat slicked her body to the point that the hilts of her daggers slipped in her palms. She needed to get out of there. The snake man darted forward, and she feinted backward, her left foot slipping, twisting her ankle.
Heat and pain exploded around her foot. She hissed and shifted her weight just as the giant slammed his fist into her left shoulder. Tempest crashed painfully to her knees. The reptile shifter sliced her leg. Tears sprung to her eyes, and she cried out. The wound was deep. The giant lifted his huge foot, and only years of training saved her life. She rolled out of the way and stumbled to her feet. She lurched toward the staircase. Maybe she could just roll down them.
A hysterical laugh bubbled in the back of her throat. She was dead.
So much for standing strong.
Blood poured down her leg in waves of red; throbbing agony crashed into her over and over again. She limped to the stairs and glanced over her shoulder. The giant and shifter weren’t attacking. They just stood in the flickering light like specters.
The giant nodded at her, his fathomless gaze locked on her. He chuckled. “Remember this. You might eat with us, train with us, but you’re not one of us. Your weakness and arrogance will get you killed.”
She swallowed and stumbled onto the staircase. As quickly as she could, she dragged herself up the stairs, pain and blood loss making her dizzy. Her whole body trembled as mocking laughter echoed up the stone staircase. She paused to make a tourniquet for her leg from her soiled shirt before continuing her death climb. She passed no one.
By the time she reached the level her room was on, she crawled along the floor, her leg dragging behind her. Just a bit farther. The hallway spun, and she barely clung to consciousness. She almost cried when she spotted her door along with the most unwelcomed visitor lazing on it like a petulant lord without a care in the world.
Mal.
Tempest struggled to her feet and tried to act like she wasn’t hurt, but it was useless. And completely dumb. Anyone could see she was a bloody mess, between the odd set of her shoulder, her bloody leg, and her twisted ankle. Mal scanned her from head to toe in one fell swoop of his icy gaze. He said nothing.
She clung to the wall and lifted her chin. “Go on,” Tempest challenged him, shaking on the spot with her effort to stay standing. “Make fun of me. Call me weak. Call me a coward for running away—”
Mal did none of those things.
One moment he was leaning on her door, and the next she was in his arms and they were moving into her bedroom. She flinched as he kicked the door shut behind them and stormed across her room, his frigid expression revealing nothing. He gently sat her on the chaise lounge near the fire and wordlessly moved across the room. He rummaged through the large wardrobe opposite her bed. He returned with a box full of bandages and healing supplies, his steps stiff. Stars, she hurt. All she wanted was her bed.
Mal motioned for Tempest to lower her camisole from her shoulder, which she reluctantly did.
“What are you doing?”
With a vicious pull of her arm, he reset her dislocated shoulder. She screamed before she could stop herself and then slumped into the chair, her body trembling with discomfort. Her head lulled, and her eyelids seemed just too heavy to keep open. Mal lowered himself to his knees, and she blinked slowly as he grabbed her ruined trousers and ripped them off of her.
“Strong,” she muttered, her tongue feeling clumsy in her mouth. And indecent.
“Shapeshifter,” he muttered.
Tears squeezed out of her eyes, and she panted as he began to clean the cut on her leg. Sweet poison, that hurt. He opened a pot of salve and the familiar, cloying smell of mimkia filled Tempest’s nostrils. She gritted her teeth as Mal began applying the drug to first her leg wound, then her shoulder, and finally her ankle.
It was nothing like when her uncles cared for her. Mal was efficient, but cold—begrudgingly helping her. Tempest resisted the urge to outright cry when the mimkia burned her skin, but she bore through it. In a few moments, she knew there would be no pain at all. Hopefully, tomorrow she’d be healed enough to walk. Thank the winter for miracle drugs.
Tempest dipped her chin and blinked slowly at Mal. He ignored her and inspected her ankle. He clucked his tongue as he gently moved it this way and that to check if it was broken.
“Careless,” he muttered.
She glared at him. If she’d been careless, she would have been dead five levels down in an empty corridor. Bastard. As if this were her fault.
Apparently satisfied with the state of her ankle, he carefully bandaged it up before gracefully rising to tower above her. Everything he did was like an exercise in control. She’d not seen him express any emotion other than disdain and snobbery since she’d arrived. But despite that, there was something about his strong, silent presence that made her feel small and protected, as odd as it was.
“Who caused all this pain?” Mal asked bluntly, his voice cutting through her like a winter breeze.
There was something about the way he asked the question that bespoke death and pain. Her lips thinned, and she glanced at the fire. She didn’t know who exactly attacked her, but she could describe them. Was it worth it, though? Her assailants had caused pain, but they hadn’t killed her or attempted to rape her. That was more than she could say for some of her other fights since arriving at the mountain palace. If she gave the men up, it could result in losing the trust of the shifters she’d worked so hard to gain.
Don’t protect the guilty.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Were they truly guilty? Or were they just acting on prejudices, just as she had done at one time? Tempest didn’t know, and only time would tell.
Tempest kept her mouth shut and met Mal’s icy gaze. She’d stay silent. For now. He cocked his head and studied her. She expected a biting comment or a threat. Instead, he smiled.
Her whole body stiffened, and her heart began to pound. It was a charming smile—or should have been charming—but she saw right through it. It was the kind of smile that signaled death was standing before you.
She shivered and opened her mouth to protest, but before she said one word—to protest or lie or anything else that she could think of—Mal left the room.
Tempest wavered, her eyelids lowering as she stared at the door.
What had she done?
Sixteen
Tempest
“…Tempest. Tempest? Tempest!”
She shook herself and turned from her breakfast, her gaze blurry. Stars, she ached, and her head was killing her. To say she’d slept poorly the night before would be an understatement. Tempest blinked repeatedly and was greeted by Briggs’s worried face. “I’m fine,” she mumbled.