Page 31 of Embers of Ruin

“I won't. It’s… too much.” I cross my arms stubbornly because I’ve never felt so exposed in my life. I’ve been trying to draw attention away from myself my entire life—now I’ll be on full display, visible for every eye to judge and devour.

“You will, milady. We have our orders.”

“My name is Lyra. Not milady. L-Y-R-A. And I won’t!”

Grace only smiles as she smooths the fabric over my hips. The gown molds to me as though it had been stitched for my body alone, skimming every curve before cinching perfectly at my waist.

I narrow my eyes. “How does it fit so perfectly?”

Neither woman answers and I narrow my eyes. Without saying a word, they tell me everything I need to know. This wasn't planned overnight.

They’ve been preparing for me.

CHAPTER 9

When Mazelle returns, she looks me over with a raised eyebrow, and I don’t miss the look of approval in her eyes.

“Acceptable. Now the king will receive you.”

How moving, I don’t know how I’ve gotten by for twenty-one years without her approval. When she turns away, I flash a tight-lipped smile at her back, resisting the urge to offer a far less polite gesture.

She leads us through the east wing and into another maze of corridors. The darkness that nearly crushed me when I first entered Andell still presses against my skin, but it feels different now. Less suffocating and more like a caress. I'm not using nearly as much energy to shield myself anymore but with every step toward the king, the warmth beneath my skin stirs.

Waiting beside a pair of massive iron doors is the familiar asshole who dragged me to this godforsaken place. Onyx looks up and freezes. For a second, he just stares. He blinks, like he's seeing me for the first time, before giving me a slow nod.

I don't know why, but his approval feels earned. I don't mind the way he looks me over; if anything, my stomach flutters when his eyes soften. Seriously? I shouldn't care what he thinks. But I do. Onyx kept his word and got me here alive. I guess that counts for something. So I do the only thing I can think of.

I give him a genuine smile. The moment doesn’t last long before we’re standing in front of the doors, and Mazelle steps next to Onyx.

“The king will see you now.”

The iron groans as the doors begin to open, and my stomach drops.

* * *

The second I step into the throne room, I regret it. At the far end of the room a single throne sits atop a raised dais, empty but holding the promise of a dreadful presence. His presence. Where is he?

My heart is beating so rapidly it feels as if it’s about to explode. My skin is prickling, sending icy shivers throughout my body so I inhale deeply to keep from running out of the room.

Damn it. I could have avoided this if I’d left Onyx in the middle of the night at Otto’s inn.

Onyx walks ahead of me, tall and silent in full captain’s regalia. The guards lining the back wall part to let us through, their gazes fixed on me. I try not to let it bother me, lifting my head a little higher as I walk toward the dais.

I look back to see Mazelle lingering at the threshold, arms crossed and a stoic expression plastered on her face before she walks slowly toward us. We fall into step together—Mazelle to my left, Onyx directly in front, and me trailing slightly. My footsteps seem unnaturally loud on the marble and I force myself to swallow the nausea.

Why am I walking into this willingly? I hate the king. And here I am, delivering myself to him like a pretty present.

I force myself to look anywhere but the throne, hoping it will settle the panic crawling up my throat. It doesn't. My eyes find the crest hanging above it instead—an ouroboros wrapped around a sword. I stare at it long enough to memorize every curve before movement behind me steals my attention. When I turn, everyone around me is on one knee. Mazelle is bent in a deep bow, her head lowered.

I freeze, feeling the cool presence of someone behind me. My magic is restless, poised to react to a threat that I don’t see. Every instinct tells me not to turn around. I do it anyway and my breath catches.

King Thorin.

He strides past me, his steps steady and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. By the time he reaches the dais and settles onto his throne, every pair of eyes in the room is fixed on him, including mine. He raises an outstretched hand, and everyone rises. The shadows trail after him, slithering across the marble toward me. They circle my legs before winding higher, wrapping around my body. One brushes against my cheek, as gentle as a caress. I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut to keep my magic from attempting to react to them. When I open them again, my gaze finds his.

The stories don't come close. King Thorin Rothstone is nothing like the charcoal sketches passed around villages. Those pictures never captured the weight of him. It would be impossible. His presence is so heavy and oppressive that it makes me want to bow to him. I can see why he is feared. He is absolutely terrifying. But I’ve also never seen a man so alluring.

His steely gray eyes are completely unreadable. They pin me where I stand, cold enough to make my stomach knot, but I can't look away. I refuse to cower or lower my gaze in front of him. My gaze drifts over the rest of him: inky black hair stopping at the nape of his neck, high cheekbones, and masculine, angular facial features. His face is perfectly symmetrical, and—as much as I hate to admit it—beautiful. There’s no other way to describe him.