Chapter 11

As the King said, the guards helped get me back to my room-or I guess, the more accurate description would be my *cell*. I push myself to walk as quickly as I can, though it's still slower than I know they'd like to be going. My hairline prickles with sweat at the exertion, but there's no way I'm going to complain about the speed. I'm sure they have people to tend to, and while they may not be *my* people, I'm sure they need help after that ordeal, and I want them to be able to get it.

Halfway to my room, a thought occurs to me and I can't stop myself from asking, "The fog you were talking about with the King earlieryou weren't talking about a normal kind of fog, were you?"

The guards-Arden and Xavier, the king had called them-share a look and Xavier shrugs.

"You're right," Arden says with a glance down at me, "I wasn't talking about a normal fog."

I hesitate a moment, then ask, "What is it? Is it kind of like the earth tremors from before?"

I'm surprised when the ever-serious male guard, Xavier, is the one to respond, "It's not like the earth tremors, but it's just as deadly," He says in a grave voice, "Usually around the time that the tremors happen, a scarlet fog comes through. It's poisonous to breathe in, and burns like fire if it comes in contact with skin."

I feel all the blood drain out of my face, my breaths turning to lead in my lungs, "What do you do if there's a fog? How do you escape it?"

"There's nothing you *can* do except pray to the Mother that you're able to outrun it."

I can't stop the shudder that runs down my spine at those words. We continue on the remaining distance to my room in silence.

The guards deposit me back into the bed of my "room", diligently reconnecting my chain back into the wall. A few pieces of furniture had been knocked down and tumbled around the stone flooring in the storm, and there was a thick layer of gravelly dust lining the comforter of the bed. One of the tapestries had come undone from its place where it had been hooked onto the stone wall and now lays in a crumpled heap on the floor.

After making sure I'm secured back onto the wall, the guards leave in a hurry, ready to make it back to help with what I'm sure was a huge cleanup. I'm more than happy to see that the books were undamaged in the earthstorm. The iron chains binding my wrists clink noisily as I brush the dust off their covers and continue their rattling as I move on to brush off the dust and debris coating the bed when I am finished with the books.

As I shake out the dust, I notice that one of the books-the book I'd been reading before the storm-had been shaken off the bed in the commotion. I grimace, trying to judge the distance from the bed to where it now lay among the tumbled furniture. I climb off the bed, tugging uselessly at where the chain strains against my stinging wrists. I stretch my foot out as far as I can reach and curse under my breath when it's too far for me to touch.

After a few minutes of useless tugging and stretching, I finally, reluctantly give up for now. I climb back into the bed, picking up one of the other books I'd already read. I try to focus on that for a while, but after reading the same few lines over and over again without retaining their meaning, I quickly realize that while my body may be exhausted from the trek through the halls and the stress of the storm, but my mind is wired and spinning through too many thoughts to focus on the books in front of me.

My mind keeps going back to the terrifying feeling of the world coming down around me and Damien Lothbrook's solid chest blocking out the horrors beyond. Something about the memory of his protective stance over me and the warmth of safety stays solidly fixed in my mind. Not to mention the way that his eyes had changed colors.

He may be considered a monster by my people-had technically kidnapped me from my own home-but I can't help but admit that he'd been anything but monstrous in those long oppressive moments of danger. He'd been*kind*. I wasn't naive enough to think that he had been kind to me for any reason other than the fact that I was the collateral he needed to keep alive to get my father to do his bidding. But, even still, it hadn't stopped his actions from being any less surprising.

I don't know how long I lay there, but it must be a few hours at least because my stomach is well past growling and has moved onto clenching and cramping uncomfortably. The fire in the grate is now nothing but dim ashy embers, the room too dark to read even if I could concentrate.

My restless circling thoughts are interrupted by the quiet clicking of my door unlocking. My stomach clenches again, but not from hunger, at the sight of Damien Lothbrook's broad shoulders taking up the entirety of the doorway as he enters my room for the second time that day.

The lighting is so dim that I can barely make him out at first, but the muffled sound of his swearing confirms who it is. His dim outline stalks into the room to crouch in front of the fireplace. The quiet scraping of him restarting the flames in the grate comes only moments before the room alights in shades of orange and yellow as the fire sparks back to life.

He's in the same clothing he was in before, but now there's dust streaked to his dark pants and boots and his raven hair is ruffled to the point of being in total disarray. Even from this distance, I can make out the dark smears lining his eyes. Eyes that are narrowed in on me.

He looks pissed.