Page 78 of Heartbreak Prince

The sleeping hunter wakes with his carotid artery already punctured, spewing his blood onto the dirt. He gurgles through the spill, eyes bulging at the sight of me.

I stay there for a moment, seeing the recognition on his face, the shock that I’m still alive. I sense the panic he feels as the life leaks out of him.

“You hurt me,” I whisper. “And you touched him. So this is your reward. Your bounty. Was it worth harming my prince?”

The awareness flees his eyes, and with a final bubbling rattle in his throat, he goes utterly still.

Severin is leading the other hunter away from Vawn, but I doubt the hunter will be stupid enough to go very deep into the trees. Once he realizes how far he’s getting from camp, he’ll turn around and go back. I need to free Vawn by then.

After cleaning my needle blades on the dead hunter’s pants, I shove the weapons back into my boots. They’re so slim that they’re hard to hold, especially with injured hands.

Right beside the deceased hunter’s head is a pile of belongings… including my belt and my knives. I grab them, but I can’t buckle them on. My bruised fingers are too stiff.

We can rest soon, I promise myself silently. We just have to cut Vawn’s ropes. Just that last thing. Then rest.

I’m talking to my own fingers. That’s a new level of insane for me, born from the blood loss, the pain, and the exhaustion. I’m nearly at my limit. If I’m honest, I passed it a while ago. I’m barely able to stay on my feet as I emerge from the tent, clutching my belongings in my left hand.

Vawn is watching me, his face a tortured mask of sympathy and rage. He doesn’t speak as I stagger toward him. I manage to draw one of my knives, dropping everything else on the ground. My shoulders ache so much that lifting my arms high enough to saw at his ropes proves to be a challenge, even though the branch to which they’re tied isn’t very high, not far above my eye level.

At one point, I sway violently, nearly cutting his arm by accident.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers. “Did you kill one of them?”

“Yes.” I blink to clear my vision and continue working the edge of the blade through the ropes.

“Good. You’re doing so well, beautiful.”

The blade bites through the last few fibers, and Vawn’s hands drop in front of him. He shakes off the loops of rope and tries to get to his feet, but he goes back to one knee, swearing under his breath.

“Wait for the circulation to return,” I warn him. I prop my back against the tree, fighting the urge to close my eyes. If I do that, I’m afraid I won’t be able to open them. I’ll pass out.

Vawn uses the trunk for support as well, pulling himself to his feet beside me. He flexes his fingers, holding them out to show me how his glyphs were scratched off with the tip of a knife. It was brutally done, grooves carved so deep they nearly reach the nail bed.

I look up at him. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left the house. I had a feeling… and I didn’t listen to my gut…” My knees wobble, and I slide down to sit against the trunk. The movement tweaks my rib, and I let out a gasp of pain. My knife rolls out of my hand onto the grass. Wincing as he bends, Vawn picks it up.

A streak of colorful light soars out of the trees and skims in front of us. “Quick!” calls Severin. “On me!”

But I can’t move. Can’t force my body to obey me anymore.

Vawn picks me up and places me on Severin. He tosses my belt after me, but he doesn’t climb on himself. He stands there, jaw knotted with rage, as the remaining bounty hunter crashes out of the undergrowth.

“Got free, did you?” snarls the hunter. His eyes snap to me, where I lie voiceless and suffering on the carpet. “She survived? Fuck. I guess we get to kill her again. Rotley!” He glances toward the tent. But he must realize that Rotley is dead, because his gaze swerves back to Vawn. He lifts his weapon, aiming it at me and the carpet.

The shot goes off, but Severin darts swiftly aside, managing to cup my body so I don’t roll off. A whir and a solid thunk follow the shot, and I lift my head enough to see the hunter staring down at the knife hilt protruding from his chest. A good throw, if not a killing one.

Vawn doesn’t wait for the hunter to retaliate. He snatches up a rock and leaps at the larger man, striking the knife hilt with the rock, driving it deeper, probably piercing a lung. Then he smashes the stone into the man’s face, over and over, each blow punctuated by a roar of agonized vengeance.

“I think he’s dead,” says the carpet conversationally to Vawn a few minutes later.

Vawn keeps heaving the rock back and crashing it against parts of the hunter’s body. His roars are weaker now, more like fractured groans.

“Leave him be,” I murmur to Severin. “He’s working through some things.”

“He can work through them later, when you’re not wounded,” Severin replies.

“Can he, though? He keeps having to postpone his grief, his rage, his bitterness, all those emotions. He shoves them aside because they aren’t convenient, because survival is more important. Eventually, that’s going to make him sick in his mind.”

“Humans.” The carpet manages to put a wealth of derision and wonderment into that single word. Then he speaks louder, addressing Vawn. “The hunters are dead. I have been repaired. And your bodyguard is wounded, perhaps mortally. Would you like to keep pounding a carcass with a rock, or would you like to fly with us to safety at Anyssir Castle?”