Reon exhales a laugh, rolling his shoulders. “I've had worse foreplay, my lady.”
Marlayna's gaze cuts to me like a dagger. “The mirror is yours to use,” she snaps. “Now get out.” Then her eyes slide back to Reon, considering him like a merchant inspecting wares. “You can have your friend in the morning. No sooner.”
Before I can turn on my heel, Reon reaches behind his back, fisting his shirt and dragging it over his head in one smooth motion, the hard muscle of his chest freckled like sun-kissed stone.
“I'll accept that challenge,” he says, voice laced with amusement.
I waste no time in leaving, turning my back just as Marlayna’s delighted giggle fills the chamber. The last thing I hear before the door shuts behind me is the sharp snap of Reon’s belt.
I step into the dimly lit corridor and try to ignore the churning in my stomach at whatever is about to unfold in that room.
The mirror. That is all that matters.
Chapter 12
Amara
When I feel the heat of the morning sun cross my face, I gasp and bolt upright, my breath tearing from my lungs in a frantic rush. It takes a moment, just a beat, to find my bearings, to realize I’m in the bed of my prison. The weight of the invisible collar around my neck presses down on me, its cold grip suffocating. My eyes widen in sudden horror. My neck. The blood. I remember the blood seeping through my fingers, the warmth, the sickening thickness.
I reach for my skin, panic flooding through me, my fingers trembling with the dread of what I might find. But there’s nothing. No wound, no blood, no scar to mark the nightmare that clung to me. But it wasn’t a nightmare. I know it wasn’t. I saw it. Ifeltit.
Desperation claws at me as I check my arms, my breath shallow, praying that my trembling fingers won’t be met with the evidence of my madness. But once again, there is nothing. Nothing but a faint memory of the pain.
No. Please.No.I can’t be going mad. Not again.
“You didn’t imagine it,” a deep voice murmurs from the shadows, its tone a rich baritone that seems to reverberate through the silence of the room. My body jerks upright, heart racing as I scramble against the headboard, drawing my knees tightly to my chest.
The Golden Son is sitting with casual indifference at the chess table, his fingers toying with the white queen, rolling it in slow circles across the polished surface. His eyes are locked on the board, distant, detached, as though nothing in this room could truly demand his attention, least of all me.
“You’ve been asleep for days,” he continues.
“My throat...” I rasp, the words barely escaping, my voice a rough, jagged whisper. The dry pain of it makes me flinch.
Finally, his gaze lifts, locking onto mine. Those ice-blue eyes gleam beneath his mask, cold and sharp as a blade forged from glass. “They healed you, but even so...” The wordsare measured, reluctant, as though forcing them out costs him something. He exhales slowly. “I didn’t know if you’d wake up.”
Then his voice shifts, cutting through the dim light like steel. “What are these tests Anethesis has you performing?”
I find enough strength to scowl. “As if you do not know.”
His fingers tighten around the chess piece, knuckles whitening. “I did not know they were tearing you to shreds.” His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it, something close to anger.
“Well, now you do.” My tone is sharp, but there’s no satisfaction in it. “What difference does it make?”
His grip on the white queen turns crushing. “It makes all the difference,” he snarls. “That was not our bargain.”
That word. Bargain. Spoken from his mouth, laced with fury, with meaning and, Souls help me, it sparks something absurd in me. A laugh, hoarse and broken, bubbles up before I can stop it. At first, I slap a hand over my mouth, but it forces its way out, rolling from my throat, ragged and uncontrollable. I tip my head back and laugh.
The Golden Son watches in baffled silence.
“Bargain?” I spit the word, amusement turning to something bitter. “Do you know nothing of the Fae and their bargains?” I lean forward, eyes narrowing. “You cannot trust the Fae.”
His jaw tightens. “Yet you married one.”
“What does that matter?” I mutter, my voice dull with exhaustion.
“You lay with him,” he presses, voice sharpening, “You carry his child.”
“None of that means I trust him.”
