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

Even unconscious, Manon’s every breath, every twitch, was a reminder that she was a born predator, her agonizingly beautiful face a careful mask to lure the unwary to their doom.

It felt fitting, somehow, considering that they were likely sailing to their own doom.

As Rolfe’s two ships had escorted them down the coast of Eyllwe, they’d kept well away from the shore. A wicked storm had them mooring among the small cluster of islands off Leriba’s waters, and they’d only survived thanks to Rowan’s own winds shielding them. Most of them had still spent the entirely of it with their head in a bucket. Himself included.

They were nearing Banjali now—and Dorian had tried and failed not to think of his dead friend with every league closer to the lovely city. Tried and failed not to consider if Nehemia would have been with them on this very ship had things not gone so terribly wrong. Tried and failed not to contemplate if that touch she’d once given him—the Wyrdmark she’d sketched over his chest—had somehow … awakened that power of his. If it had been a curse as much as a blessing.

He hadn’t had the nerve to ask what Aelin was feeling, though he found her frequently staring toward the coast—even if they couldn’t see it, even if they wouldn’t get close.

Another week—perhaps less, if Rowan’s magic helped—would have them at the eastern edge of the Stone Marshes. And once they were in range … they’d have to trust Rolfe’s vague directions to guide them.

And avoid Melisande’s armada—Erawan’s armada now, he supposed—waiting just around the peninsula in the Gulf of Oro.

But for now … Dorian was on watch in Manon’s room, none of them taking any risks where the Blackbeak heir was concerned.

He cleared his throat as her eyelids shifted, her dark lashes bobbing up—then lifting wholly.

Gold sleep-murky eyes met his.

“Hello, witchling,” he said.

Her full, sensuous mouth tightened slightly, either in a repressed grimace or smile, he couldn’t tell. But she sat up, her moon-white hair sliding forward—her chains clanking. “Hello, princeling,” she said. Gods, her voice was like sandpaper.

He glanced at the water jug. “Care for a drink?”

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.”