Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 156210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 781(@200wpm)___ 625(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 781(@200wpm)___ 625(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Kyranis is a whirlwind even if his movements no longer seem effortless. He’s panting as the little monsters land, attaching to him with their talons, but that doesn’t mean the critters have any chance to win this fight.
When he manages to shove one of the moths off his vest, it’s at the cost of it slashing through his leather armor, and only then does it strike me how sharp their claws are. Had Kyranis not lured the moths into this deadly dance, they would have scratched my flesh raw.
A strangled yelp escapes his lips when one of the critters crawls up his pale stomach and into the opening between two flopping pieces of hard leather. His face a picture of fury as he twirls to take down four of the monsters with one swing of his sword, and two with another. Only then, once they’re all dead, does he reach beneath his ripped vest.
Kyranis grabs the creature, and I hear the crackle of tiny bones, followed by a hiss. Blood shines at the front of the damn pest’s body as he pulls it out from under his clothes, only to twist its neck and throw it to the ground.
“Are you all right?” he asks even though he’s covered with way more blood than me.
“Y-yes. I’m trying not to move,” I whimper, failing at sounding any braver than I am. But can you blame me? I’m just a fast food worker with some painting skills and a love of bats. I’m not prepared to fight monstrous moths in a dark forest that is actively trying to rip me apart with thorny vines.
No longer worried about the moths, Kyranis makes his way toward me, mercilessly cutting through the bush and ignoring the branches trying to restrain him as if they had a mind of their own.
This is really happening. The ache in my flesh is too visceral for any of this to be a dream.
Kyranis doesn’t seem annoyed with me yet, too busy slicing through the vines around my arms to free me. His porcelain pale face is spattered with blood, and he stains my uniform wherever he uses his bleeding hand to pull away the branches trapping me.
This reminds me of that time when I ran away from boarding school only to crawl back, begging for help after being stung by wasps in the forest. I’m ashamed of running off and causing Kyranis pain. I’m ashamed I didn’t know what awaited me. But most of all, I’m ashamed that I feel sorry for him, when he abducted me in the first place. Is this how Stockholm Syndrome works?
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, remembering Marty’s words from hours ago.
Do better.
If only I knew what “better” is in the context of my sort-of-relationship with Kyranis. Prince Kyranis Nightweed. Lord of Sorrows. Or something along those lines. I have to admit that after seeing him come for me with so much ferocity, I have a new appreciation for him and his sword. From up close, the weapon is even more impressive. The carvings on it are barely visible in the dark, but they resemble some kind of plant, while the pommel is a black seashell.
“I hope this will be a lesson,” Kyranis says through his teeth, back to his high and mighty attitude. “Just stay very still. I will cut the vine around your neck. My weapon is extremely sharp and I don’t want to hurt you.”
I don’t know if I should hate or appreciate him, but I sigh first, then focus on not breathing as he leans over me, reaching behind my ear. He smells of blood. But also something darkly floral that messes with my head.
A streak of red making its way from between the flaps of leather on his chest catches my attention. I shudder at the memory of that moth crawling in there and I wonder how badly it hurt him, but he doesn’t seem too worried and bends even lower, eventually kneeling in the bush, to reach for a branch behind my head. The slit in his vest opens right in front of my face, revealing pale skin covered in… tattoos? At least that’s what I assume I’m looking at before I notice the patterns move. Shadowy snakes crawl all over him soundlessly. Twisting, overlapping in a slow dance of ink. If they’re made of ink at all.
Not all of the tattoos are black. In the middle of his chest is a golden sun, and the dark creatures seem to avoid it at all cost. But as I take note of the smooth, hard lines of the symbol, it strikes me that it’s not a tattoo at all, more like a deep scar that’s been sealed with liquid gold. As if someone poured a medallion straight into his flesh.
I focus on his nipple for a little too long, but it’s only because one of the creatures slithering over his skin makes its way across the stiff pink peak.