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Back The Starving Saints Save as PDF
Chapters (57)
  1. Cover
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. Acknowledgments
  54. About the Author
  55. Also by Caitlin Starling
  56. Copyright
  57. About the Publisher

But Treila hadn’t died. No, she’d lived, and she is wild now in Voyne’s arms. They fall from the bench, to the ground, tangled in each other. This is not the compulsion to throw herself on Phosyne’s mercy; this is older, darker. This is five years of desperation, knowing that Treila had trusted her, wanted her in her adolescent fervor, awkward and so sure despite it.

It’s good that Treila is so red in tooth and claw; when Voyne saw her, meek and vulnerable in the garden for that brief moment before she fled, it had galled her to her very core. Treila de Batrolin, broken by what Voyne had done to her—if she’d been left with her mind for much longer, if the monsters had not arrived, it would have been Treila who destroyed Voyne from the inside out.

She still might.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”

Treila doesn’t let her speak. She rolls them over, straddles Voyne, and she is so small, so light.

“Did you make me want you?” Treila asks, pulling back just far enough to see how her eyes flash. “Did you know from the start? Was it always your intention to break me?”

“Never,” Voyne says, aching, clumsy hands fisting in Treila’s soft clothing. She needs armor. She needs to be protected.

Treila surges back down for another kiss, arches, stretches against her. One of her hands leaves Voyne’s side, but Voyne is drowning, too confused, too overwhelmed. This is not how she wanted this to go, but somehow it is perfect. Treila was right, of course; she has spent too long aching in the shadows.

But there’s no way for Voyne to come before her still serving a king. No way to make amends if the False Lady once again hides Treila from her sight. No way to hold her if she is too tightly tangled in Phosyne’s spiraling web.

She can’t serve Treila, but she can protect her.

Treila returns to her fully, and Voyne reaches up to cradle her jaw. She kisses her tenderly, now, trying to tell her everything. Trying to make things right.

Pain blossoms in her throat.

Voyne looks down to see Treila’s fist forced against her neck. In that fist is the hilt of her dagger. The blade is buried deep. It has cut through her esophagus, her trachea, her veins and arteries and everything that she needs to live.

Strange.

She never thought she’d die like this.

41

41

Phosyne is still sitting on the throne when she feels something snap inside her.

The pain emanates from her throat, just below her jaw. It is sharp, stabbing, nowhere close to her heart, but the meaning is undeniable enough. Either she is dying or—

Or something has happened to Ser Voyne.