Page 18 of The Crowned Queen

He grumbled, the bed creaking as he settled again. “Call out if you need me.”

Araya slid out from beneath the covers, her bare feet sinking into the thick carpet—its softness almost obscene against her raw, abused flesh. Each movement sent a fresh bolt of pain through her battered body. She caught the bedpost, willing herself not to fall. Not to need him.

Finally, the room stopped spinning around her. She moved slowly toward the bathing chamber, one careful step at a time, her breath catching as the door came within reach. Throwing caution to the wind, she scrambled through and closed the door behind her.

It was almost enough to make her believe she was safe. The solid weight of the door at her back, the silence on the other side—as if there was any world where a thin slab of wood could keep him out.

But then she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

Her breath hitched. Her body was a map of bruises and raw welts where the straps had chafed against her skin, a swath of white linen covering the space between her breasts. Terrified, yet still needing to know, Araya peeled it back, sucking in a sharp breath at the dark spiral of runes inked between her breasts. The black ink shimmered faintly with bound aether, the edges of the marks still swollen and inflamed.

This was more than just two runes—a lot more.

Some of them she knew. Marks of control. Of suppression and restraint. Obey. Bind. Submit. Others she’d never seen before, all of them swirling together to form a command she couldn’t understand beyond one simple truth.

Whatever the Arcanum hoped to gain through them…it wouldn’t be good for her.

Araya used the facilities in a daze. Washed her hands. Her face. Then she wet a towel, dabbing gingerly at the inflamed marks on her chest. Kai’s father hadn’t been wrong to describe him as an artist. The wounds were already closing, the edges of the runes crisp and clean. Araya laughed, the sound coming out in a soft hiccup. At least her disfigurement was technically proficient.

Finally, there was nothing left to do. Araya closed her eyes, half-afraid of what she would find as she turned her attention inward.

Her magic answered her, a spark of power in her blood flaring bright—but then it flickered, guttering out like a candle burned too long. Useless.

Araya let out a shuddering breath. She’d spent weeks in iron, her power drained to the bare minimum to keep her alive. It would take days—maybe even longer—for her aether to recover. Even then, the ly’ithra rune would only leave her access to as much power as Jaxon deemed necessary. He would take what he wanted from her, just like he always had.

And the Arcanum would take the rest.

Her throat tightened. The thought of stepping back into that room, of lying down beside him again—it was almost more than she could bear. But she had nowhere else to go. He wouldn’t let her hide in the bathing chamber forever.

Araya eased the door open, swallowing her sigh of relief at the sound of Jaxon’s steady breaths. He was still asleep, his face slack, one arm flung out toward her empty place—reaching for her.

Once, the sight would have warmed her heart. But now she knew what that face looked like twisted with cruelty. She’d seen his skin streaked with her mate’s blood. Had felt the same hands that once caressed her hold her down while she begged him to stop.

That was the future she faced now. A body she had no claim to. Her bond with Loren turned into a weapon. And the man who had twisted her love—who had used and broken her—would use both to destroy the prince who had won her heart.

Unless she did something to stop him.

A flash of metal on the nightstand caught her eye—Jaxon’s dagger. The blade gleamed against the dark wood, catching the weak light of dawn.

For a heartbeat, Araya held her breath, just staring at it. Three steps—no, two, if she moved fast enough—and it would be in her hand before he could even stir.

It wouldn’t free her. It wouldn’t save Loren. But Jaxon Shaw would never touch either of them again.

She took that step, then another, forcing herself not to tremble. She held her breath as her fingers closed around the hilt of the knife, its metal comfortingly cold against her fevered skin.

She stood over him, the point of the blade hovering just above the hollow of his throat. His pulse beat lazily beneath the skin, as slow and steady as the rise and fall of his chest.

All she had to do was press down⁠—

Magic surged under her skin.

Araya’s teeth slammed together, her strangled cry caught behind them. Blood flooded her mouth, her back bowing as her own magic raged through her veins like molten metal, violent and wrong.

Jaxon’s eyes snapped open.

“Oh, Starling.” He gripped her wrist, carefully prying the dagger from her fingers. “That was a bad idea.”

She couldn’t answer him—couldn’t even try to pull free of his grip as he sat up, dropping the dagger carelessly back on the nightstand.