Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 132138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 661(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 661(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Chapter Thirteen
Bronwyn
I shudder, the cold threatening to overtake me. They didn’t even leave a blanket in the frigid, dank cell they tossed me into. There’s nothing but a cot and a bucket. I don’t like to think about what the bucket is for.
My head aches. I wonder if Ove is even alive.
I have to get out of here. I have to. If I stay the night, they’ll execute me in the morning.
Goddess, what did I do? I felt the heat in my hands, rolling up from my soul. I called it. It was mine to command. Little Ove was lying on the ground, her fragile body seconds from being kicked apart by brutal feet. I didn’t think. I acted, and the world around me went up in flames. It was natural. I didn’t fear the fire.
But I’m afraid of the cold I feel now.
I’m going to ignore it. I’m scared. Of course I am. I’m locked in a prison. I have every right to be scared. My head throbs. What happened? I remember everything up to the fire coursing through my veins. I’m a pyromancer. It’s the only explanation. I need to come to terms with it. It could help me enormously.
I’m done. Watching sweet Ove lying there in the dirt crystalized my resolve. I need to stop hiding. One way or another, I’m going to be Bronwyn Finn again. In life. In death. If Torin is looking for me, maybe it’s time to make myself available to the rebels. Gillian is wrong. My only job isn’t to stay alive. My job is to fight.
I look around my small cell. They didn’t place me in the jail, but in the private cell of the sheriff’s office. A thick oak door with a small rectangular hole stands in the way of me and freedom. I must get out. Staring at the door, I try to call the fire forth.
Nothing.
My palms are cold, not hot. And I can feel them flexing almost as though they aren’t my own. My hands clench of their own volition. And yet there’s something about it that feels almost soothing, like a hand reaching out to embrace my own.
I ignore it. I’m alone. No one has hugged me or touched me in years. Gillian pats my hand or my back. Ove hugs me, but it’s for the brownie’s comfort. It’s been thirteen years since I’ve really felt compassionate hands on my body.
Except in my dreams. But I’m not dreaming now.
I get to my knees in front of the door, trying to peer out the keyhole. I can fashion a lockpick. I was taught by the best thieves. I simply need two pieces of flexible but strong material. There’s a pin that holds the neat apron I’m wearing to the tunic. It will do. I pull it out. Flexible and easy to work with. I can scrape the pins of the lock with it. Now I need something more solid to hold the lock in place.
Sweet heat invades my veins.
Bronwyn.
My name rumbles along my skin. A dark, sensual masculine tone echoes in my brain. It says my name over and over. It isn’t an unpleasant thing meant to draw my attention, more like a monk whispering a prayer over and over.
Except the low feeling in my womb doesn’t remind me of any religion.
I struggle to breathe. My pussy is warm. Except it isn’t a pussy.
I sigh and close my eyes. What the hell is happening? A cock. I can feel a cock as though I have one myself. It’s a wonderful thing to have a cock. A cock is the center of the whole world.
I feel my head roll back, my focus scattering. I can’t concentrate on the door. How can I think about anything but the warm feeling in the center of my body? Stumbling back, I hold my hands out, trying to find that cot. My feet feel dumb, my whole body being taken over by sensation.
What in all the planes is happening to me?
Calm down, love. Let it happen.
The words flow over me. I know that voice. It’s the voice of my Dark Ones. They often speak as one, their tone flowing in and out. I know it well. Tears prick my eyes. I’m still asleep. I’m dreaming. The whole incident with Ove was naught but a terrible nightmare. It’s still the night before the festival, and I have time.
I fall back on the mattress, worrying because this bed isn’t mine. It’s hard and unyielding, made of wool. My sheets are of a soft cotton. We brought them when we left the last province, Gillian and I. Those sheets were easy to slip into our packs. A reminder of the home we enjoyed for a few years.
So many “homes.”
I gasp. A hand circles my dream cock. Strong fingers tighten around masculine flesh. No wonder men become obsessed with such a thing. I feel lit from the inside out. That hand lays a light touch along my cock. My cock? What sort of dream is this?