DARKHAVEN | "Three Sisters" Book One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Roslin

Roslin woke in Novak's bed. The bedsheets of spun cloth-of-gold silk were the same she'd slept on once before when he'd put her in that wonderfully dreamless, painless sleep after the ordeal with the cave.

Gold sheets, gold drapes, and bed curtains of thick crimson velvet. Comfortable. Familiar.

Her eyes opened slowly at first, then went wide. Novak. She sat straight up. How did I get here?

Upright and alert, there was not an inch of her body that didn't ache. The skin of her face, neck, and arms burned a raw, open sort of burn.

Roslin looked down and felt her stomach curdle. It looked as if she'd been attacked by a beast—something wicked and clawed—that had raked her and left horrible, dragged clawmarks down the lengths of her arms and on her clavicle. Though she couldn't see her neck or face, she could only assume they stung the same way for the same reason.

The cuts were partly healed as if by magic, but still raw and red. And painful. And hot.

"Lord Novak...!?" She clutched the silken sheets of gold to her chest. My Lord, my golden Lord. He'll come any moment and it will all have been a terrible, terrible dream.

Roslin lowered her voice, remembering the evil afoot in the castle without, and called again, "My Lord? Hello?"

Mercer's voice answered from somewhere in the room, unseen. "You're awake."

Roslin gaped around helplessly before he emerged from the shadows at the far end of the room. "What happened?" she asked.

"You happened."

It couldn't be. She looked down at the damage done to her arms—the wicked clawmarks one might associate with hagravens or harpies or griffins, but not her. "I don't understand."

Something had happened. That much she remembered. Everything felt faraway, though, faint and distant and just beyond grasping.

Mercer crossed the room, rounded the corner of the bed almost lazily, and stood in front of her. "Lazaro," he said simply, then added, "among others."

Roslin just looked down at her body again helplessly—and was terribly aware she was entirely undressed, as well.

"You snapped."

"Snapped?"

"Yes."

Silence followed. Then, "What did I do?"

Mercer sat on the bed beside her. His eyes searched her face, measuring her, taking her in. "You got cornered in the hallway. Do you remember?"

Roslin had thought for several moments before she told him, "Yes. You went to see the Orchestrator...and there were..." She paused. Men would not be the right word for them. They were not men; they were less. "Too many of them."

"And then Lazaro."

"Lazaro..." Her stomach churned at the word. "I remember now."

Mercer rested his elbows on his knees. "Lazaro took you back to his quarters. He...you reacted...poorly."

Her hands clenched and unclenched. "I don't remember much of it."

"He went running for help. I found you in deplorable shape. The healers didn't even know what to do with you. Nothing calmed you. You broke, and it seemed doubtful there'd be any fixing you."

Roslin tucked her hair behind her ears, then, and told him, "Sorry to disappoint them. I imagine I'll be thoroughly broken before long." The movement made the clawmarks on her arms sting.