Page 42 of Embers of Ruin

The moment I step inside, my magic reacts. It’s as if the Sacred Gardens is familiar in a way. It remembers the dead rosebush and the flower, like a parent remembering a child freshly birthed. My magic reaches outward, searching for the tiny bloom I left behind. I look in the spot where my magic erupted, but can’t find the bloom. Interesting. Maybe Thorin kept it as a present?

Onyx steps beside me, bringing my thoughts back to the present. “His Majesty will arrive shortly.”

“Does His Majesty ever arrive at a normal time, or does he prefer appearing dramatically once everyone has had adequate time to feel uncomfortable?”

I feel his presence before he speaks.

“I prefer a dramatic appearance, occasionally.”

I whirl and my gaze lands on Thorin, standing beneath the archway. He wears black, of course, because apparently no one in this palace believes in variety. His coat is fastened high at his throat with silver clasps, the fabric fitted to his imposing frame. The shadows gather at his feet, quiet and obedient, slipping over the stones like dark water. His eyes find mine immediately and my heart rate picks up in response.

Absolutely not. Not today.

I look away, mostly out of self-preservation and partly because I refuse to let him think his staring has any effect on me. Even though it does, which is unfortunate for me and none of his business.

“Lady Tarethyn,” he says.

“Your Majesty.” I drop into a curtsy and when I look up, our gazes lock. Shit. There it is, that magnetic pull. Gritting my teeth, I glance up at the gray sky before looking over at Onyx, who is deep in conversation with Briar. Great. No distractions today when I desperately need it.

“You slept well?” Thorin asks, breaking the silence.

I blink at him. “Um… yes.” My eyes narrow. Why is he asking me that?

“Why?”

“You looked exhausted yesterday. You don’t look nearly as drained today.”

I scoff, slightly offended. Did I look that bad? “I was dragged across half the continent and then informed I would be held prisoner by a man with shadows as pets. Exhaustion seems reasonable.”

His gaze moves over my face, slow and assessing. I can't help but notice the silver swirling in his eyes. They always seem brighter when he's looking at me.

He exhales softly, almost wearily.

That makes two of us.

“I don't know how many times I have to say this, but you are not my prisoner.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. It’s not a pretty laugh, either, because this has to be a joke.

“No? How embarrassing on my part. I must have misunderstood the locked doors, armed guards, and the part where I’m not allowed to leave.”

“You are being protected, Lyra.”

“Against my will. What part of that are you not understanding?”

He sighs, and irritation flashes across his face. “Protection does not always ask permission. I am a King, Lyra Tarethyn. I do not ask permission to do anything.”

Thorin bends down and whispers in my ear words that only I can hear, “I can have anything I want, muya mivanti. Anything at all, Lyra. So if I offer you my protection,” he leans back, his eyes holding mine, “you should trust that I have a good reason.”

His shadows slip between us, curling around my wrists before gliding up my arms like curious fingers. They brush my cheek, feather-light, before wrapping around us until the world beyond him disappears. My magic answers instantly. Heat blooms beneath my skin, racing through my veins with startling urgency. The familiar warmth surges toward every place his shadows touch, silver-gold light flickering beneath my skin before I force it back down.

His shadows withdraw as abruptly as they came, slipping from my skin and dissolving back into the ground as though they had never touched me at all. The warmth beneath my skin lingers a heartbeat longer, reluctant to let them go. My gaze catches on the places they touched before it drifts to him.

Thorin turns toward another dead rosebush and gestures. “Again.”

I open my mouth then immediately shut it, staring at him. “So that’s it, then? No pleasant conversation? No explanation for why your dead garden and I are becoming unwilling acquaintances?”

“Again, Lyra,” he repeats, firmly.