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

Aelin tugged her shirt out of her pants and slung it over her head, tossing it in the sand beside her. Then she removed the flexible cloth around her breasts.

“Varik, Heiron.” Two Fae males came forward.

Aelin didn’t fight as they each gripped her by an arm and hauled her up. Spread her arms wide. The sea air kissed her breasts, her navel.

“Ten lashes, Cairn. Let Her Majesty have a taste of what to expect when we reach our destination, if she does not cooperate.”

“It would be my pleasure, Lady.”

Aelin held Cairn’s vicious gaze, willing ice into her veins as he thumbed free his whip. As he raked his eyes over her body and smiled. A canvas for him to paint with blood and pain.

Maeve said, the mask dangling from her fingers, “Why don’t you count for us, Aelin?”

Aelin kept her mouth shut.

“Count, or we’ll begin again with each stroke you miss. You decide how long this goes on for. Unless you’d rather Elide Lochan receive these strokes.”

No. Never.

Never anyone else but her. Never.

But as Cairn walked slowly, savoring each step, as he let that whip drag along the ground, her body betrayed her. Began shaking.

She knew the pain. Knew what it’d feel like, what it’d sound like.

Her dreams were still full of it.

No doubt why Maeve had picked a whipping, why she’d done it to Rowan in Doranelle.

Cairn halted. She felt him studying the tattoo on her back. Rowan’s loving words, written there in the Old Language.

Cairn snorted. Then she felt him revel in how he’d destroy that tattoo.

“Begin,” Maeve said.

Cairn’s breath sucked in.

And even bracing herself, even clamping down hard, there was nothing to prepare for the crack, the sting, the pain. She did not let herself cry out, only hissed through her teeth.

A whip wielded by an overseer at Endovier was one thing.

One wielded by a full-blooded Fae male …

Blood slid down the back of her pants, her split skin screaming.

But she knew how to pace herself. How to yield to the pain. How to take it.

“What number was that, Aelin?”

She would not. She would never count for that rutting bitch—

“Start over, Cairn,” Maeve said.

A breathy laugh. Then the crack and the pain and Aelin arched, the tendons in her neck near snapping as she panted through clenched teeth. The males holding her gripped her firm enough to bruise.

Maeve and Cairn waited.

Aelin refused to say the word. To start the count. She’d die before she did it.

“Oh gods, oh gods,” Elide sobbed.

“Start over,” Maeve merely ordered over the girl.

So Cairn did.

Again.

Again.

Again.

They started over nine times before Aelin finally screamed. The blow had been right atop another one, tearing skin down to the bone.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Cairn was panting. Aelin refused to speak.

“Start over,” Maeve repeated.

“Majesty,” murmured one of the males holding her. “It might be prudent to postpone until later.”

“There’s still plenty of skin,” Cairn snapped.

But the male said, “Others are approaching—still far off, but approaching.”

Rowan.

Aelin whimpered then. Time—she had needed time—

Maeve made a small noise of distaste. “We’ll continue later. Get her ready.”

Aelin could barely lift her head as the males heaved her up. The movement set her body roaring in such pain that darkness swarmed in. But she fought it, gritted her teeth and silently roared back at that agony, that darkness.

A few feet away, Elide slid to her knees as if she’d beg until her body gave out, but Manon caught her. “We’re going now,” Manon said, tugging her away—inland.

“No,” Elide spat, thrashing.

Lorcan’s eyes widened, but with Maeve’s command, he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything as Manon slammed the hilt of Wind-Cleaver into the side of Elide’s head.

The girl dropped like a stone. That was all Manon needed to haul her over a shoulder and say to Maeve, “Good luck.” Her eyes slid to Aelin’s once—only once. Then she looked away.

Maeve ignored the witch as Manon prowled toward the heart of the marshes. Lorcan’s body strained.

Strained—like he was fighting that blood oath with everything in him.

Aelin didn’t care.

The males half dragged her toward Maeve.

Toward the iron box. And the chains. And the iron mask.

Whorls of fire, little suns, and embers had been shaped into its dark surface. A mockery of the power it was to contain—the power Maeve had needed to ensure was fully drained before she locked her up. The only way she could ever lock her up.

Every inch her feet dragged through the sand was a lifetime; every inch was a heartbeat. Blood soaked her pants. She likely wouldn’t be able to heal her wounds within all that iron. Not until Maeve decided to heal them herself.

But Maeve wouldn’t let her die. Not with the Wyrdkeys in the balance. Not yet.

Time—she was grateful Elena had given her that stolen time.

Grateful she had met them all, that she had seen some small part of the world, had heard such lovely music, had danced and laughed and known true friendship. Grateful that she had found Rowan.