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and yanked. She went down, teeth singing as
they slammed against the mask, drawing
blood from her lip.
Then he was over her, raining blows on her
head, her neck, her chest.
She couldn’t dislodge him, her muscles so
drained from disuse, despite the healers
keeping the atrophying at bay. Couldn’t flip
him, either, though she tried.
Cairn fumbled behind them—for an iron
poker, heating in the brazier.
Aelin thrashed, trying to get her hands up
and over his head, to loop those chains around
his neck. But they’d been hooked to the irons
at her sides, down her back.
Fenrys’s snarling barks rang out. Cairn’s
hand fumbled again for the poker. Missed.
Cairn glanced behind him to grab the
poker, daring to take his eyes off her for a
heartbeat.