Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5) by Sarah J. Maas

The bull gained on her, diving down.

Lysandra passed under the links of the chain, and the shadow of the bull spread beneath her.

So small. She was so small compared to him—one bite was all it would take.

Aedion slammed himself back into the gunner chair, gripping the levers and pivoting the machine as she swam and swam for him.

One shot. That was all he’d have. One gods-damned shot.

Lysandra hurled herself forward, and Aedion knew she was aware of the death that loomed. Knew she was pushing that sea dragon’s heart to near-stopping. Knew that the bull had reached the bottom and now launched himself up, up, up toward her vulnerable belly.

Only a few more yards, only a few more heartbeats.

Sweat slid down Aedion’s brow, his own heart hammering so violently all he could hear was its thunder. He shifted the spear, slightly, adjusting his aim.

The bull raged up from the deep, maw open, ready to rip her in half with one blow.

Lysandra passed into range and leaped—leaped clean out of the water, all sparkling scales and blood. The bull jumped with her, water streaming from his open jaws as they arced up.

Aedion fired, slamming his palms into the lever.

Lysandra’s long body arched away from those jaws as the bull lifted clean out of the water, baring his white throat—

As Aedion’s massive spear went clean through it.

Blood spurted from the open jaws, and the creature’s eyes went wide as he reared back.

Lysandra slammed into the water, sending a plume so high it blocked out the sight of both of them as they crashed into the sea.

When it subsided, there was only the shadow of them—and a growing pool of black blood.

“You … you … ,” the sentry babbled.

“Load another one,” he ordered, standing from his seat to scan the bubbling water.

Where was she, where was she—

Aelin was perched on Rowan’s shoulders, scanning the bay.

And then a green head shot from the water, black blood spraying like spindrift as she hurled the severed head of the bull across the waves.

Cheering—riotous, wild cheering—exploded from every corner of the bay.

But Aedion was already up and running, half leaping down the stairs that would take him toward the beach that Lysandra now swam for, her own blood replacing the black ichor that stained the water.

So slow, each of her movements was so painfully slow. He lost track of her as he descended below the tree line, his chest heaving.

Roots and stones wrenched at him, but his Fae-swift feet flew over the loam until it turned to sand, until light broke through the trees and there she was, sprawled on the beach, bleeding everywhere.

Beyond them, out in the bay, Ship-Breaker dropped low, and Rolfe’s fleet swept out to pick off the surviving soldiers—and save any of their own still out there.

He vaguely noted Aelin and the others diving into the sea, swimming hard for land.

Aedion dropped to his knees, wincing as sand sprayed onto her. Her scaled head was nearly as big as he was, but her eyes … those green eyes, the same color as her scales…

Full of pain. And exhaustion.

He lifted a hand toward her, but she showed her teeth—a low snarl slipping out of her.

He held up his hands, scooting back.

It was not the woman who looked at him, but the beast she’d become. As if she had given herself so fully to its instincts, that it had been the only way to survive.

There were gashes and slices everywhere. All dribbling blood, soaking the white sand.

Rowan and Aelin—one of them could help. If they could summon any power after what the queen had done. Lysandra closed her eyes, her breathing shallow.

“Open your gods-damned eyes,” Aedion snarled.

She snarled back but cracked open an eye.

“You made it this far. Don’t die on the rutting beach.”

The eye narrowed—with a hint of female temper. He had to get the woman back. Let her take control. Or else the beast would never allow them near enough to help.

“You can thank me when your sorry ass is healed.”

Again, that eye watched him warily, temper flickering. But an animal remained.

Aedion drawled, even as his relief began to crumble his mask of arrogant calmness, “The useless sentries in the watchtower are now all half in love with you,” he lied. “One said he wanted to marry you.”

A low snarl. He yielded a foot but held eye contact with her as he grinned. “But you know what I told them? I said that they didn’t stand a chance in hell.” Aedion lowered his voice, holding her pained, exhausted stare. “Because I am going to marry you,” he promised her. “One day. I am going to marry you. I’ll be generous and let you pick when, even if it’s ten years from now. Or twenty. But one day, you are going to be my wife.”

Those eyes narrowed—in what he could only call female outrage and exasperation.

He shrugged. “Princess Lysandra Ashryver sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

And then the dragon huffed. In amusement. Exhaustion, but … amusement.

She opened her jaws, as if she’d try to speak, but realized she couldn’t in this body. Blood leaked through her enormous teeth, and she shuddered in pain.

Brush snapped and crashed, and there were Aelin and Rowan, and his father and Fenrys. All of them soaked, covered in sand, and gray as death.

His queen staggered for Lysandra with a sob, flinging herself onto the sand before Aedion could bark a warning.