Nesta and the Mercenary

Chapter 4

Nesta sputtered as the liquid hit her face. It took several tries to fully open her eyes and blink away all the water.

"About fucking time!" said the girlish, husky-voiced shadow that hovered over Nesta against a backdrop of fading sky. "Just relax, princess, stay still."

Nesta scowled and scooted her arms to prop herself up, but firm gently hands pushed her back to the ground.

"You didn't tumble far, but if you're hurt, moving before you know it is going to make things much worse," said the shadow.

"I can't go very far with you straddling me," Nesta said hoarsely.

"That's the point, princess."

Nesta's eyes had adjusted enough now to see the long, sculpted face and scarred eyebrow—Rab, the mercenary.

Who had brought her to the wall. Which she had failed to cross.

She had failed, utterly failed, to rescue Feyre. Her little sister, whose little hand she could still feel wrapped in her own.

"I'm just a common bitch, not a fucking princess!" Nesta hissed. "And I'm a terrible sister." Her voice cracked on the last word.

Rab just coolly raised her eyebrows.

A hot lump in her throat threatened to strangle Nesta as she allowed Rab to poke and prod her fallen body, searching for internal bleeding or broken bones. Though by the time Rab was checking her eyes and asking asinine questions to assess whether her throbbing headache indicated an injury to her mind, Nesta couldn't hold back the eye rolls and scoffs that came more easily than breathing.

Rab froze in the middle of making Nesta count fingers, her pointer still raised above Nesta's face.

The hairs on the back of Nesta's stood on end, and she felt it too.

They locked eyes. Nesta saw nothing but terror in Rab's deep, obsidian gaze.

"Whatever you do," Rab hissed, her lips barely moving, "don't look anywhere but my face. Don't look. Don't make a peep. Its power comes from acknowledgement."

Nesta pressed her lips together. Her shivering had little to do with the dewy ground pressing at her layers of clothes.

The temperature dropped precipitously. It was a cold unlike that of the winter woods they had hiked through these past two days; this cold was a living, leeching thing that stole any inner warmth.

Look at me.

The voice was not a sound carried on the air; but rather something older than ears, something felt in the bones, something inherently understood. The cold thing, the leech, circled them, though Nesta did not see it.

But she could feel it. She could hear it.

Look at me. I will devour you. I will snap your bones between my claws. I will drink your marrow while you watch.

Having nowhere else to safely look, Nesta took in every detail of the mercenary's face. She traced the planes of the high cheekbones, the aquiline nose, the sharp brow, the cleft chin. A face that would have been beautiful if carved into stone, but was daunting in the flesh.

She watched the sun-browned warmth drain from Rab's face, leaving full lips ashen and scars stark white against olive skin.

I will make it hurt, and in the end you will beg for my teeth to shred you into oblivion. Look at me.

The throbbing headache turned into a sharp pain along her temples as Nesta clenched her teeth. She flinched minutely at the pain and relaxed her jaw, but it was enough to break Rab's waning focus.