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The Ceremonial holds up a wrinkly hand, and the crowd falls silent while my heart fills the room with its frantic beats. They are out there to pass judgement on what has or hasn’t happened in this room, and if I want to live, they need to believe their king performed his matrimonial duties. I can tell by the way one of the Crows peers at me past the king’s neck, his gaze drifting from my face to my hair, then down to my bare skin, and a hiss escapes his beak as he takes in the seam of my breasts where the blanket threatens to slip.
“Never seen a naked woman, have you?” I whisper-spit at him and tug the blanket tighter, praying to the Guardians he believes he caught me covering myself up just in time. “Oh … you Crows don’t have women, do you?”
I could swear the air stops moving for a heartbeat, and judging by the way the muscles in King Myron’s neck bunch, I am certain it is his magic calling the world to silence while I do my best impression of a woman disturbed in her post-pleasure rest.
In the hallway, not one caw or hiss sounds as they all wait for him to speak, and as he glances at me over his shoulder, I glimpse a hint of worry in his eyes that I hadn’t expected.
Before I can react, he turns back to the Ceremonial, shoving a hand through his hair and bracing his feet slightly apart. Myron merely nods at the Ceremonial, who inclines his head at the king and raises his voice. “The marriage has been consummated and your new bride will be called Queen of Crows from now on forth.”
I don’t know if it’s the authority of a king that allows him to convince a whole crowd with a nod or if it’s the Ceremonial’s words that do, but my stomach coils into a spiral of nausea as King Myron steps aside and Royad walks into the room with a tray in his hands, gaze curiously following the length of my body where, from this close, the bunched up skirts of my dress are well visible in the shape of little hills and valleys around my legs. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything as he places the tray on the nightstand.
I brace myself for the wrath of the Guardians to break loose as the lie is discovered, but Royad doesn’t say a word as he crosses the threshold either, merely nodding at his king in silent understanding, and vanishes in the crowd.
“Now leave, all of you,” the Crow King calls into the hallway, power reverberating in every word. “You already know how little I enjoy being disturbed when I have my new bride to myself for the first time.” The cruelty in his tone reminds me of the king dragging me down the corridor to this room, of the male commanding me to speak my vows against my will. Yet, when he shuts the door in their faces and leans against it, head resting back on the wood and gaze on the ceiling, I sense the tension leave his body as I watch him carefully.
No matter that he lied to keep up pretenses, he is still a predator; it is evident in every hard muscle running down the front of his torso, every carved pane and edge of his abdomen. The top button of his leather pants is open, allowing it to sit low on his hips, the V of his muscles disappearing behind dark fabric. I direct my gaze back to his face, finding his already waiting for me.
“Certainly not what I expected.” He purses his lips, placing both his hands on the threshold so his feathers spread slightly around his elbows. I’ve never taken a close enough look to understand how they are attached to his arms, if they are wings he could fly on or mere decoration, but now I’m curious.
“I could say the same.” I hold his gaze as he steps out of the doorframe and stalks across the room, each step elegant even when the air of insurmountable power has left him, and he settles on the deep blue couch that is entirely too short for him to stretch out on.
“Drink the wine,” he says as he lies back on the silk cushion and closes his eyes. “It will help you sleep.”
I’m far from tired, adrenaline coursing through my veins after the view of monsters collecting on the doorstep.
“Why?” I ask into the silence and half expect the Crow King to leap to his feet and attack me. But he doesn’t open his eyes, pulling up his legs so his feet are braced on one armrest while his head rests on the other. It’s an almost comical view, like an adult folding into a child-sized bed.
“Whywhat, Wolayna?”
His voice is deep and dangerous, implying I need to be careful with what questions I ask even when he’s told me the ones that I should be asking.
I ponder that for a moment, allowing myself to study his features in the warm light of the fire.
Why do they want me dead,I think, but out loud, I ask, “Why are you pretending in front of them? Why not take what they believe is yours and ensure there is no lie they could detect?”
At that, his eyes open, finding mine across the room. “Because taking something just because I can doesn’t necessarily make me a good king.”
I’m so surprised by his answer that I forget to think as I continue. “Then what makes you a good king?” And wish I hadn’t because he rolls his head to his side, cutting off that brief connection.
“I’m not a good king, and I never will be. Just as I’m not a good male. Now sleep, Wolayna. We have a lot on our agenda tomorrow.”
It’s the last thing he says to me, and I don’t dare speak another word for fear it will bring back the cold male I feared mere hours ago.
As I settle beneath the woolen blanket, I clutch my knife with both hands again and will myself to calm.
Sleep doesn’t find me until the first gray light of dawn creeps into the room through the windows left and right of the bed and my eyes shut from exhaustion.
Fourteen
When I openmy eyes again, it’s bright daylight, and I’m alone in the Crow King’s bedroom, bundled up in the woolen blanket I pulled up to my nose the night before. My dress is in place, even with the straps torn, and when I glance to the side, I find my dinner knife neatly set parallel to the edge of the bedside table. Whether it fell during the night or the Crow King merely decided to pry it from my fingers in my sleep, I really don’t want to think about it. It’s bad enough that I spent the night in his bed and I’m not entirely appalled by the idea. At least, not more than by the thought of going out there and facing the monsters who want me dead.
Why?
With a last glance around the room, I make sure King Myron isn’t hiding somewhere in the shadows, ready to strike, but then, I figure, if he hasn’t killed me by now, he’s not going to do it. Especially since he’s voiced numerous times that he wants me to live. Why does he care?
That goes on the list of all the otherwhys I desperately want answers to but don’t know where to start digging. I’m still trapped in a palace in a kingdom which seems to consist of one single forest in the middle of the fairylands of Askarea. The only difference is the male I’ve feared beyond words did a decent deed by allowing me to keep my dignity. Does that make him a good person?
With ninety-nine wives on his conscience, I highly doubt it.
