replied. They’d had this conversation a dozen times in the last two days.
“It’s been three days,” Dominicus argued. He’d grown more impatient over the evening. More agitated. Lazarus wondered if that was because Lorraine had refused his visits since he and Quinn got into it in the council chambers. Perhaps it was her fear that she used so forcefully in the dungeon below, leaking into the air, slowly driving the other man to the edge. The most likely possibility was that he simply didn’t like her or care to wait.
“We wait for Quinn,” Lazarus repeated, unmoving in this.
Dominicus shook his head in frustration but didn’t press a third time. While Lazarus’ patience had returned with the fear twister, he was still king and did not let his vassals rule him. Except for one, though she wasn’t a vassal any longer.
Seated beside an unreadable seven-year-old and a troubled Draeven whose chest was bandaged heavily, was Lorraine. His stewardess’ lips were pressed tightly together. Her thin fingers gripping each other where they laced together on top of the table.
Tension drew every muscle in her body taut from the moment Quinn had returned three days ago.
He didn’t have to guess why. Quinn didn’t look kindly on liars and traitors, and Lorraine had never really told her where she came from, who she was. Even through all they’d been through, she kept those secrets buried from all but Lazarus.
Ten years ago, he’d smuggled her and her son out of Vusut, the capital of Jibreal.
They’d changed the boy’s name and sent him to a school for lordlings. One outside the large cities, in a place that his father would never find him. While Doran was a powerful man and a king, he wouldn’t go to war over Lorraine and the boy. Not with Lazarus.
Not when he knew his secret, one that would disgust his nobles and dishonor his name. He might be king, but the things he did to his own son . . . rumors like that could stir rebellions.
So Doran let it go, or at least didn’t act upon it.
Until now.
A heavy wooden door slammed shut. The metal lining and frame banging together loud enough it echoed throughout Shallowyn.
Lorraine looked up, meeting his eyes.
He saw pain there. Unbearable pain and resignation for what she thought was to come.
They didn’t hear Quinn as she walked down the halls, but Lazarus could feel her power as it drifted nearer. She walked with a slow steady gait, stopping outside the council room.
The brass handle clicked, and the door swung open.
Lazarus froze, his lips parting at the sight of her.
After the battle, she’d been covered in sweat and blood and dirt.
Now, blood had saturated her hair so thoroughly not a hint of lavender shown. It appeared the darkest red with only a tinge of brown—dry, and stiff—in the low light of the council room. Not an inch of her pale skin was clean. Splatters and drips and smudges covered her and her armor. Layer upon layer saturated so deep that it lined her eyelids and congealed on the lashes.
Only her eyes were a color other than crimson .
The black had drained away from them, and instead they were the lightest shade of blue. Almost translucent as they looked over the room and settled on Lorraine.
She knew.
Quinn walked forward, stygian magic and flakes of dried blood left in her wake.
Lorraine stood, her expression guarded as Quinn approached her.
The fear twister’s face was unreadable and not even Lazarus knew what she felt.
She stopped.
Only a foot apart they stood, eye to eye.
Seconds passed as Quinn stared at her and Lorraine searched her face in return.
“Quinn, I—” Lorraine started. She didn’t get to finish before Quinn lifted her arms and wrapped them around the other woman’s shoulders. She embraced her fiercely, and those crystalline eyes met Lazarus’ own over Lorraine’s shoulder.
There was something unnamable in her expression. Something he would decipher later as she said, “He will never, ever hurt you or your son again.”
Three days’ worth of tension drained away from the woman he’d known for a decade. Her shoulders eased, and she hugged Quinn back, squeezing her tightly around the middle.
“I tried to tell you before the battle,” Lorraine murmured, her voice thick with emotion.
“I know.”
“I’m sorry I—”
“Don’t apologize,” Quinn said sharply, pulling back just enough to cup both Lorraine’s cheeks. Her blood-crusted eyebrows drew together. “You did what you needed to do. You protected him as a parent should. I wish my mother had been as strong as