Page 18 of She Who Holds My Wrath

Chapter 9

DAISY

After the throne room speech, everything blurred.

Question after question came at me like arrows, and thank the gods for Aran, because he intercepted most of them. I don’t speak fluent war strategy yet, and I’m not about to stand there pretending I know how to rearrange an entire army without accidentally suggesting something catastrophic. By the time it ended, I practically collapsed into bed and slept twelve hours straight, only to wake up to Aran telling me they were planning Korithax’s funeral.

That day went by just as fast and just as blurry. The ceremony was beautiful. The entire kingdom turned out—drinking, dancing, and celebrating their king’s life with endless amounts of food and alcohol. Every single person had raised a glass of his favourite whiskey—Highland Park 25 Year Old. I nearly choked when I heard it was from back home and cost almost six hundred dollars a bottle. But it was his favourite, and it felt right that everybody shared a piece of him that day. Every single person all sharing one thing in common: love for Korithax.

But watching everybody speak about him, about how they had watched him grow. How they had watched him turn into the man they all came to respect and care for… that was the hardest part for me. Witnessing so many people mourn the man I’d grown to love. They’d had him for centuries, some for his entire life. I’d had him for barely five months. And most of that was spent either glaring at each other, or him lurking in the background, watching me like I was a particularly confusing puzzle he wanted to crack.

In truth, I only got four weeks of the real Korithax.

Four weeks where he let me touch him without flinching. Where his laugh—deep, warm, and rare—filled the quiet between us. Four weeks of waking up to the weight of his arm draped over me like he’d rather lose sleep than lose contact. Four weeks where his eyes softened in a way they never had before, where his calloused hand lingered on my cheek like he was memorising the finest details of my face. Four weeks where he stopped guarding his words and let the truth slip in small pieces—confessions whispered in the dark, a rough, “I’m not letting you go,” against my hair.

And in those four weeks, he stole my heart completely. Sounds stupid, really. Only four weeks of someone showing me all of them, and them becoming my everything. That sounds like such a miniscule amount of time for someone to be able to bury themselves so deep within your skin, that even a scalpel couldn’t dig them out. Because he wasn’t just in my skin. Not even just my heart. He was in my blood, my bones, my fucking soul. He owned every single part of me in those four weeks.

But if I’m being honest? He’d had my heart the night he rescued me from that party. Pathetic, really—falling for a demon prince who told me over and over how weak and useless I was. But the way he didn’t hesitate to come for me… the way he killed my abuser without a second thought because he had hurt me. Yeah… my heart was his before either of us realised it. And he only gave me his for the shortest sliver of time. Maybe I was just so desperate to be loved that I just threw my heart at him, despite knowing he’d somehow shatter it. But I didn’t care. And I still don’t. Giving Korithax my heart and soul was the most incredible thing I have ever done in my miserable existence. Because despite the fact he only truly accepted it for those four short weeks, they were the best damn weeks of my life.

I hated myself for it, but at the funeral I was jealous of the people who’d had lifetimes with him. I looked at them with grief twisting to something sharp and ugly inside me. I locked myself in my rooms for two days after that, faking illness. They knew I was lying because there’s a potion or a healing spell for almost everything in this godsdamned realm. But Aran let me have the space anyway, running the kingdom while I stayed in the dark.

I still hadn’t spoken to him about Lyvia either. But today that would change. Mostly because Maelkar decided I wasn’t allowed to mope anymore. He informed me, very cheerfully, that if I didn’t get my “sad, pathetic ass” out of bed to train, he’d drag me into the sparring ring in nothing but my underwear. Naturally, I called his bluff. Because even the Shadowtongue wouldn’t do something as crude as that.

Naturally, he stormed into my room at dawn and wrapped a tendril of shadow around my ankle and yanked me right off the mattress, the thin nightgown I had on hiding absolutely nothing from view. I was halfway to the door, kicking and cursing, before I gave in and agreed to meet him at the ring in half an hour. And as if training wasn’t enough of a punishment, I also had the lovely task of touring the different regions of the kingdom today. Apparently, being queen means more than speeches. It means showing your face everywhere.

Lucifer. Vailith. The Welcome Circle. The Sovarith Council. And between each domain, I’m supposed to “drop in” on smaller territories—Cinderspine, Nox’Thraxis—like I’m popping over for tea. Nox’Thraxis, especially, makes my skin crawl. I’ve only caught glimpses of the shadowfolk’s realm, and that was enough for every hair on my body to stand on end. A few of their leaders were at my speech, power spilling off them in waves so heavy I couldn’t unclench until they left. They like to keep to themselves, tucked away in their sunless corner of Hell, ruled by House Nytherian. Aran says they’re invaluable spies, especially in other realms like Earth. And while I can appreciate how useful they are… they still give me the creeps.

Strolling towards the training grounds, I spot Maelkar in his usual spot, leaning lazily against a tree at the edge of one of the chalk-lined rings, like he has all the time in the world. My training leathers creak faintly as I walk, my hair pulled back into my usual single plait that trails down my back.

“Good morning, my beautiful little rage muffin,” he drawls, pushing off the tree. “Ready to get your ass kicked again?”

“If I remember correctly, Shadowtongue, I handed you your ass last time,” I say, stepping into the ring.

He barks out a laugh. “Barely, Queenie. You got lucky.” His chin tips towards the weapon rack. “No weapons today. Let’s work on that fire inside you that’s dying to be set loose. I saw you control it during your speech. So, let’s see if you can fight with it.”

I swallow harshly, my throat suddenly bone dry. “I mean… it was barely controlled. I basically begged to any god that would listen to make sure I didn’t fry someone. What if I hurt you?”

He scoffs, already stepping into position. “As if. And on the one-off chance you actually manage to hit me, I’m fully protected.”

“Are you sure?” I ask again, unable to shake the coil of unease in my gut.

“Aww, is the little fire bitch scared she’s going to hurt the almighty Shadowtongue?”

My brows lift. “Bitch?”

“Bitch. Whore who fucked her way onto the throne and now has a dead husband and a kingdom all to herself. Which title do you prefer?”

My jaw drops open. His grin is pure evil. And just like that, my fire surges to life, licking across my palms in bright-white molten threads. Without thinking, I hurl one hand forward. Flame bursts from me in a chaotic rush, the sheer force of it stealing my breath and sending sweat trickling down my spine. It hits nothing but empty air, and Maelkar doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Say that again,” I growl. “I dare you.”

He smirks. “Was that supposed to scare me? Pathetic. A dead king is more useful to this kingdom than you, sweetheart.”

The words slam into me like a blade to the ribs, the world narrowing to the shape of his smug fucking face. I close my eyes, inhale deeply through my nose, and feel for it. The roiling heat under my skin, the rage that claws its way up my spine. When I open them again, both palms are raised. Brilliant flame bursts from my hands in twin streams, meeting halfway before crashing into him in one streamline straight into his chest. Maelkar flies backwards, hitting the ground and skidding out of the chalk-lined ring. He’s still grinning when I step forward, but that smile vanishes as my flames surge higher, curling into a dome that traps him in bright light and heat. I hold it there, the power thrumming through me, sweat beading along my hairline, tears lining my eyes as his voice echoes in my head.

Pathetic.

Dead king.