Frost to Dust by Myra Danvers

18

Adeep, rumbling groan echoed in my ears. Dragging me back from the edge of the void into a land of slicing agony. Where my every muscle ached with exertion and the petting, rough hands that sought to soothe left only misery in their wake.

“Mmph,” I grunted, incoherent and flailing. Knowing just who would take such liberties, I tried to push him away from me. “Don’t.”

A slap landed on my cheek. Gentle yet jarring, a command for me to, “Wake up.”

I groaned as warm breath caressed my cheeks. “Get off,” I mumbled, mouth full of starch. Powdery and dry beyond anything I’d ever known. My tongue tacked to the roof of my mouth with a thick, gluey paste.

“Mila. Wake up,” he hissed. “What did you do? The fuck was that?” he asked, and everything shifted. Skin raking over a carpet, I was dragged into his lap. Head lolling on a flimsy, boneless neck before he thought to support me. Before he pushed the hair back from my damp forehead and went still. Cradling me in arms that trembled with the effort.

“Kept my promise,” I whispered without bothering to peel my lids apart. And then, after a moment’s thought, “Failed to keep my promise.”

I felt him frown, felt his displeasure crackle against skin made hypersensitive by the flood of too much energy, too fast. Energy that had been wasted. “What are you on about? What did you do?”

Laughter bubbled up, surprising us both, when I said, “Well… to start, I tried to kill you, Asher.”

For a moment, he was silent. Fingers running tiny, infuriating circles against my nape, he seemed to consider my words. And then, “You…”

“Tried to kill you, yes.” Squinting, I managed to crack my left eye so I might see what I could feel so clearly. The shock, the subtle glimmer of anger, but best of all, the begrudging admiration. The intrigue and the arousal. “Almost got the general, too,” I added, wrinkling my nose, “but Sasha stopped me. The sneaky traitor.”

Going stiff, the captain’s already waxy face blanched a sickly shade of green. “You made an attempt on the general’s life? General Tilcot?”

But to this, I had nothing to say. Merely waited for him to draw his own conclusions.

“Shit,” he hissed, and his grip tightened. “Shit!” Head tilted back to bump against his desk, he laughed, low and rich. An incredulous bark of mirth that brought a helpless smirk to my own lips. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he asked, and I watched his throat work around an anxious swallow. “All my plans, undone in a single shitty afternoon. Six grueling months in the West, all for nothing.”

Stretching, I turned my nose into the crook of his elbow—where his sleeve was rolled up and his skin was bare—allowing myself to luxuriate in the flavor of panic. In the scent of the man I couldn’t escape. “No promotion for you, hmm?”

Twice more, he thumped his skull against the desk. “He’s going to kill you for this. You know that, right?” And then, dumping me onto the floor in a rubbery heap, he said, “Fucksakes, I’m going to be sick.”

Unable to move, I watched him crawl. Watched when he caught the rim of a garbage can with the tips of trembling fingers and pulled it as close as he could before retching. Sides heaving with a violent purge.

“Ughhh,” he groaned and spat into the bucket. “The fuck did you do to me?”

“You’re the healer,” I drawled, feeling nausea bubble at the back of my own throat. “You figure it out.”

He turned his head enough to scowl at me—and vomited again. “Why?” he asked, sweating and pale. Almost grey beneath the bronze-tinged skin. “Why would you attack Tilcot? Of all the fucking—”

“And why not?” I returned. “He’s a monster. You know it better than I do, captain.” I snorted. “Why would I pass up the opportunity to remove the head of the snake?”

“You stupid little girl!” he hissed, and hunched over his bucket. “Harper isn’t the head of anything. The empire has dozens more lined up to take his place.” He paused to spit into the pail. “Dozens more who will be promoted to fill that void. The only thing his death means is a reshuffling of the ranks.” Sagging back, he resumed his position, propped up against the desk. A pukey bucket pinched between spread knees. “All you’ve done is thrown fuel on a fire and draw attention of much worse men than Harper Tilcot.”

Struggling, I managed to force myself upright. Claimed the spot next to him, and asked, “Is there a better way to kill elites?”

He rolled his eyes and swiped at his forehead with the back of his arm, blotting his brow. “Just can’t help yourself, can you? I should chain you up and lock you in the cellar.” Turning, he eyed the bottle of amber liquor perched on the edge of his desk. Grunted, and with a truly impressive effort, managed to throw his right arm up and knock the decanter to the floor.

It landed with a heavy thud, intact.

And with quaking fingers, he twisted the cap and sloshed alcohol all over himself. Soiling his now sweat-soaked shirt with the reek of spirits.

When he managed to get the rim to his lips, he took a swig, rinsed his mouth, then spat into the bucket with a grimace. A wrinkled nose. “But it’s too late now, isn’t it?” he murmured, again bringing the decanter to his lips. This time, drinking deep. His throat bobbing around each greedy swallow. “I don’t know if I can fix this.”

“I don’t need your help.”

Peering at me through a bleary, obsidian glare, he settled back and set his forearms to the bend in his knees. Bottle dangling from hooked fingers, a tiny, sinister smirk curled at the edge of his lips. “Ahh, yes. Such a fascinating delusion.”

It was my turn to scowl. “What?”

“You called me a parasite, once,” he murmured. “Insinuated elites are nothing without a priestess to kneel for them.”

“That’s not—”

“Remind me,” he drawled, took another swig, then set the noxious garbage pail aside. “Who did you come to? Who did you beg to ease your pain?”

Throat thick, I shook my head on a denial I couldn’t voice.

“You begged for it, Mila. Knelt over my cock, absent even the barest whisper of a fight. Dripping for it…” He smiled, and it sent terror spilling down my spine. “Making all sorts of offers and promises if only I could help you…”

Too weak to retreat, I could only sit there and wait. Knowing what came next. That this would be his greatest pleasure, despite everything that had come before.

And with shaking fingers, he reached and claimed the spot at my nape. Pulled me in tight so I might hear it when he whispered, “You’re mine now, little empath. Body and soul. Gave yourself to me. Willingly.” Fingers carding through my hair, back to front, he let his thumb wander. Tracing my cheekbone down to my lips. “As easy as flipping a coin.”

I exhaled the bitter flavor of defeat, eyes drifting closed on the pain of such a blow.

It was obvious, now. In the desolate vacuum of my defeat.

I wasn’t the avenging hero, the liberator, or the righteous weapon Tritan needed for salvation.

I was exactly as they’d named me.

A delusional little fool, a child playing with forces I had no real understanding of.

And it was in that moment, as the captain closed the loop and claimed the empath for himself, I knew.

There was but a single living soul who embodied both sides of the spectrum—and he was elite.

Captain Asher Rawlings.

Enemy.

Conquering villain.

A master of this game to which I was hopelessly unequal.

When I held my silence, I felt him nod. “Here,” he murmured. “You look like you need this.”

The decanter hovered before my face. Amber liquid sloshing with a hollow tinkle that drew a reflexive swallow to my throat. Urging me to indulge.

I took the offering only for it to slip from clammy, weak fingers.

Without a word, the captain reclaimed the bottle and set it to my lips. Guiding my head back. Feeding me a burning sip, he filled my mouth until I could hold no more and the corners of my lips spilled over.

“Swallow,” he murmured, wiping at the spillage with the pad of his thumb.

I obeyed.

Spluttered then coughed when it was down, pressing the back of one trembling hand to my lips.

“So.” He took another long draught, throat working mechanically as he watched me. “You tried to kill me.”

For a moment, as the spirits warmed my belly, I simply held his ebon gaze. Too tired to fight, too battered for anything resembling defiance. And then my chin dipped in a single, tight nod.

“I’ll admit,” he drawled, and the corner of his lips twitched, “I’m impressed. But what concerns me is how spectacularly you failed.”

Jaw tight, I scowled and looked away.

“I can feel it, you know.” Setting the bottle between us, he grimaced and pushed himself to stand. “The damage you did to my heart reflected back into yours.” Swaying, he clutched at the desk for a moment before adding, “Clever. Reckless and incredibly stupid, but a valiant attempt.”

I snorted, watching him hobble to the bathroom with garbage pail in hand. “Thanks.”

“It means we’re linked, Mila,” he said. “More deeply than I thought possible. It would seem, what is dangerous for one, is deadly to the other.”

You cannot kill him without also killing yourself…

Realization flooded through my veins. Sluggish and befuddled, but stark in the knowledge that I’d heard this warning before—from the lips of the Head Priestess herself.

Asher’s death would mean my own.

“Of course it does,” I murmured when he closed the door. Letting the water run where I couldn’t see.

And without much intention, I dragged myself upright. Fighting to remain standing, I clung to the edge of his desk and swayed. Dizzy. Sweating and cold. Breasts all but spilling free where my borrowed shirt sagged open, my heart strained to work. Pulse throbbing wildly beneath my jaw.

The glimmer of gold caught my attention, and I hooked the manacle with my forefinger, pulling it toward me in a bid to distract from the way my pulse thrashed beneath my jaw. A piece of an unused set.

Tritan chains.

It was a simple circlet of gold. Nothing remarkable, except for the way it glittered in the gloom. Except for what it meant for the women left scared in the empire’s never-ending fight for dominance.

Because it always came back to the chains, didn’t it? They couldn’t control us without them, couldn’t fight each other without first climbing through the ranks of the powerful and privileged.

I didn’t react when the captain returned, breath heavy with the scent of mint.

Didn’t flinch when he said, “He’s wanted a second priestess since the moment he claimed his first.” And with a ginger touch, he took the golden manacle with a frown and caught my eye. “He made a move, didn’t he? Tried to claim you.”

Instead of answering, a question blurted over my lips. “What’s the program?”

Jaw bunching at the corners, his eyes narrowed, but he said, “You already know.”

Acid bubbled in my throat. “He wanted to know if I’m the exception to the rule,” I whispered. “If there was more than a barren desert b-between my legs. If I… If I might be”—I choked on a sob, humiliated, but unable to stop the confession—“if I might bred. For the g-good of the empire.”

The captain offered no comfort. Didn’t reach out and press me to his chest or dare to murmur sweetness against my temple.

He listened.

Held his silence and let me speak.

“He meant to set a claim on me,” I babbled. Gaze falling to the floor, hands twisting in the billowing fabric hanging loose around my fingertips. “A second claim to supersede the first, so he could try to… try…” I hiccuped. “To breed me. That’s what the program is, isn’t it?” I asked, and met his eye. Vision too blurry to make out his reaction—too drained to taste his energy and know what lurked beneath the surface. “A program for Tritans. The citizens who aren’t cursed with priestess blood.”

He sighed, set the manacle down with a clatter of metal on wood, then claimed his seat behind the desk. “The birth of a priestess is as rare as that of an elite.” He reached for me, then. Pulled me into his lap, and draped my thighs across his. Feet left to dangle above the ground. “Why do you think I was so thrilled to find you? An unbound priestess—an adult.”

“They’ll be children,” I whispered, and let him tuck me beneath his chin. “Born into slavery.”

He nodded, but that was it.

What else might be said?

We were quiet for a time. Recovering. Not thinking too hard or bothering to fight, I simply sat and absorbed his heat. Wiping at the occasional stray tear that wasn’t soaked up by his shirt.

And then, “Sasha told me to pray.” I inhaled, deep as I could. My lungs filled with the raw scent of him. Hitching only a little.

He chuckled, minty breath ruffling my hair. “Clever woman. We’ll need all the divine intervention we can get if we’re going to survive any retaliation attempt.”

“Aren’t you related?”

At this, he laughed outright. “Being his cousin has never helped me before. Why start today? And after my warrior priestess made an attempt on his life?” Reaching around me, he reclaimed the decanter and took one final, long draught. Corked the bottle, then asked, “You did the same thing to him? Affected his heart?”

Avoiding his eye, I nodded. “Sasha means to fix it. To save him, instead of letting me finish it.”

Asher chuckled. “Well that can’t be—”

A tentative knock at the door made us both jump. Our eyes snapping to the door, we turned to stare and I felt him go stiff beneath me. Muscles coiled and tense, but weak—soaked in a cold sweat and aching with fatigue.

Just as I was.

I met eyes that had gone bottomless and dark with possessive, seething rage. And unable to stop myself, I whispered what we were both thinking. “He’s here.”