Acotar retelling

Two Best Friends in a Dungeon (They Might Kiss)

No one, not even Lucien, came to fix my arm in the days following my victory. The pain overwhelmed me to the point of screaming whenever I prodded the embedded bit of bone, and I had no other option but to sit there, letting the wound gnaw on my strength, trying my best not to think about the constant throbbing that shot sparks of poisoned lightning through me.

But worse than that was the growing panic—panic that the wound hadn't stopped bleeding. I knew what it meant when blood continued to flow. I kept one eye on the wound, either out of hope that I'd find the blood clotting, or the terror that I'd spy the first signs of infection. It's been days and Rhys hadn't shown up to offer our bargain—I was started to panic that he wouldn't come.

I couldn't eat the rotten food they gave me. The sight of it aroused such nausea that a corner of my cell now reeked of vomit. It didn't help that I was still covered in mud, and the dungeon was perpetually freezing.

I was sitting against the far wall of my cell, savouring the coolness of the stone beneath my back. I'd awoken from a fitful sleep and found myself burning hot. A kind of fire that made everything a bit muddled. My injured arm dangled at my side as I gazed dully at the cell door. It seemed to sway, its lines rippling.

This heat in my face was some kind of small cold—not a fever from infection. I put a hand on my chest, and dried mud crumbled into my lap. Each of my breaths was like swallowing broken glass. Not a fever. Not a fever. Not a fever.

My eyelids were heavy, stinging. I couldn't go to sleep. I had to make sure the wound wasn't infected, I had to... to...

The door actually did move then—no, not the door, but rather the darkness around it, which seemed to ripple. Relief coiled in my stomach as a male figure formed out of that darkness, as if he'd slipped in from the cracks between the door and the wall, hardly more than a shadow.

Rhysand was fully corporeal now, and his violet eyes glowed in the dim light. He slowly smiled from where he stood by the door. "What a sorry state for Tamlin's champion."

"Not Tamlin's." I forced out. "Never Tamlin's."

"Oh?"

My head was light and heavy all at once. If I tried to stand, I would topple over.

He stalked closer with that feline grace and dropped into an easy crouch before me. He sniffed, grimacing at the corner splattered with my vomit. I tried to bring my feet into a position more inclined for scrambling away or kicking him in the face, but they were full of lead.

Rhysand cocked his head. His pale skin seemed to radiate alabaster light. I blinked away the haze, but couldn't even turn aside my face as his cold fingers grazed my brow. "What would Tamlin say," he murmured, "if he knew his beloved was rotting away down here, burning up with fever? Not that he can even come here, not when his every move is watched."

I kept my arm hidden in the shadows. The last thing I needed them to know was how weak I was. "Get away," I said, and my eyes stung as the words burned my throat. I had difficulty swallowing.

He raised an eyebrow. "I come here to offer you help, and you have the nerve to tell me to leave?"

"Get away," I repeated. My eyes were so sore that it hurt to keep them open.

"You made me a lot of money, you know. I figured I would repay the favor."

I leaned my head against the wall. Everything was spinning—spinning like a top, spinning like... I kept my nausea down.

"Let me see your arm," he said, too quietly.

I kept my arm in the shadows—if only because it was too heavy to lift.