Page 50 of The Crowned Queen

For a moment, Araya stared at the dress he pressed into her hands. It was hers—from another lifetime. She ran her fingers over the practical, sturdy fabric, pausing on the tiny stitches where she’d mended the sleeve after tearing it on the loose door jamb at Serafina’s house.

“I’ll get you something warmer if you need it,” he said. “But for now this will have to do.”

Araya swallowed hard, yanking the dress over her head and pulling up her underthings after she was covered. Jaxon handed her a pair of boots next—her boots from the back of the wardrobe in the apartment they’d shared in Aetheris, a fresh pair of thick socks tucked inside.

She tied the laces with shaking hands, taking a deep breath to steady herself. At least Jaxon wasn’t going to chain her naked to the foot of his bed. Araya had survived a lot in her life, but she didn’t know if she could have survived that.

“I’m going to have the healer come look at your wrists. Your ankles too.” Jaxon’s hand closed around her elbow again, guiding her to the edge of his cot. The frame hit the back of her knees, her traitorous legs buckling.

“Are you hurt anywhere else, Starling?” Jaxon picked up a brush from the small table beside the bed, carefully starting to work it through her hair. “How is your tongue? Does it hurt?”

Araya started to shake her head, but the brush caught on a knot. She hissed, flinching despite herself.

“Easy,” Jaxon said, his voice softening. “I won’t hurt you.” He slowed, working the bristles free with careful patience. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

Lie.

Araya stared at the floor, forcing herself to sit frozen as Jaxon pulled the brush through her hair in long, unhurried strokes. His other hand gathered her damp hair at the nape of her neck, until the brush finally glided through it without catching.

“There,” he said, setting the brush aside. “Now, we do have to go to the command tent. Rowland is insisting on laying eyes on you before he officially cedes command to Father—but it’s just a formality. Nothing to worry about.”

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as her. Araya twisted her hands in her skirt, counting her heartbeats to calm them.

“I think we can skip the irons given the state of your skin.” Jaxon held a hand out to her, his strained smile not quite reaching his eyes. “After all, I can always compel you if I have to.”

She supposed he could. Araya stood, ignoring his hand. She smoothed the wrinkles from the skirt like she had a hundred times before, squaring her shoulders. “Let’s get it over with, then.”

Chapter

Eighteen

Jaxon led her out of the tent and down the steps, his grip on her elbow as unbreakable as iron. Two guards fell into step, pacing them through the rows of officers’ tents and past the common tents, soldiers stopping to gape as Jaxon Shaw strode by, dragging his wayward fae bond along beside him.

That’s her, Shaw’s pet⁠—

—thought she’d be prettier⁠—

Pet? I heard she was the commander’s whore⁠—

Araya dropped her eyes, but it did nothing to stop the whispers. Their attention followed her all the way to the center of camp, to the largest tent Araya had ever seen.

It loomed over them, the Arcanum’s golden eye emblazoned on the black banners hung from every pole. The flaps had been tied open, allowing a steady stream of aides and officers to hurry about their business.

“Commander Shaw, how nice of you to finally join us.”

High Commander Rowland stood behind a heavy table next to Garrick Shaw, the entire surface taken up by a single, sprawling map. Aetherlight gleamed off the gold accents on his jet- black dress uniform, every crease and fold perfectly arranged like he’d stepped straight out of a military portrait.

“High Commander.” Jaxon pressed his fist to his chest, bowing at the waist. “My apologies for our tardiness. We were⁠—”

“Inquisitor Pryce already informed us of the reason for the delay.” Rowland cut him off, his lip curling. “I assure you, Jaxon, I’m not afraid of a little dirt. I’ve seen fae in much worse condition than Miss Starwind.”

Jaxon’s gaze flashed to where Caylin stood at attention near the back of the tent, her hands clasped behind her back. His grip tightened on Araya’s arm until she was sure she would have bruises—but she kept her gaze fixed on the floor. Be quiet. Meek. That’s how she would survive this. By not giving them anything to punish.

“They’re here now,” Garrick said. “That’s what matters, Erik.”

“To you, maybe.” Rowland snorted. “I always forget you aren’t a military man, Garrick. We have rules for a reason. Discipline is a valuable quality—one your son has always struggled with, despite his raw talent.”

“I’ll make sure he’s on time tomorrow, sir,” Caylin said, her voice honey sweet. “It’s what I’m here for.”