A COURT OF MIST AND FURY (A COURT OF THORNS AND ROSES #2) BY SARAH J. MAAS – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Sarah J. Maas
- Language: English
- Genre: fantasy romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
I vomited into the toilet, hugging the cool sides, trying to contain the sounds
of my retching.
Moonlight leaked into the massive marble bathing room, providing the
only illumination as I was quietly, thoroughly sick.
Tamlin hadn’t stirred as I’d jolted awake. And when I hadn’t been able to
tell the darkness of my chamber from the endless night of Amarantha’s
dungeons, when the cold sweat coating me felt like the blood of those
faeries, I’d hurtled for the bathing room.
I’d been here for fifteen minutes now, waiting for the retching to subside,
for the lingering tremors to spread apart and fade, like ripples in a pool.
Panting, I braced myself over the bowl, counting each breath.
Only a nightmare. One of many, asleep and waking, that haunted me
these days.
It had been three months since Under the Mountain. Three months of
adjusting to my immortal body, to a world struggling to piece itself together
after Amarantha had fractured it apart.
I focused on my breathing—in through my nose, out through my mouth.
Over and over.
When it seemed like I was done heaving, I eased from the toilet—but
didn’t go far. Just to the adjacent wall, near the cracked window, where I
could see the night sky, where the breeze could caress my sticky face. I
leaned my head against the wall, flattening my hands against the chill
marble floor. Real.
This was real. I had survived; I’d made it out.
Unless it was a dream—just a fever-dream in Amarantha’s dungeons, and
I’d awaken back in that cell, and—
I curled my knees to my chest. Real. Real.
I mouthed the words.
I kept mouthing them until I could loosen my grip on my legs and lift my
head. Pain splintered through my hands—
I’d somehow curled them into fists so tight my nails were close to
puncturing my skin.
Immortal strength—more a curse than a gift. I’d dented and folded every
piece of silverware I’d touched for three days upon returning here, had
tripped over my longer, faster legs so often that Alis had removed any
irreplaceable valuables from my rooms (she’d been particularly grumpy
about me knocking over a table with an eight-hundred-year-old vase), and
had shattered not one, not two, but five glass doors merely by accidentally
closing them too hard.
Sighing through my nose, I unfolded my fingers.
My right hand was plain, smooth. Perfectly Fae.
I tilted my left hand over, the whorls of dark ink coating my fingers, my
wrist, my forearm all the way to the elbow, soaking up the darkness of the
room. The eye etched into the center of my palm seemed to watch me, calm
and cunning as a cat, its slitted pupil wider than it’d been earlier that day.
As if it adjusted to the light, as any ordinary eye would.
I scowled at it.
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