Page 126 of Bride of Ash & Dust

“Drink it,” Blayne says. “I’m not raising the snake’s spawn in my household.”

“What?”

Blayne stares at me like I’ve failed to understand a very simple concept. “I don’t know if any of the seeds the snake planted have taken root,” he says. “But I’m not taking any chances.”

“I— I don’t⁠—”

“Oh, for the gods’ sakes,” Blayne mutters. “Just drink it. If you’re pregnant, I want it gone. You’re my wife, you’ll carry my children.”

My mouth falls open.

“I’m not marrying you,” I spit.

Blayne laughs. It’s as hard and sharp as the edge of a blade.

“It’s already done,” he says. He pulls a piece of parchment from a pocket inside his jacket, then unrolls it. “Signed by King Malrik himself,” he continues, “in lieu of any other responsible party. And witnessed by Mortimyr, the king’s personal assistant.”

He smiles at the parchment, then turns it toward me. I have a vague impression of ink and wax seals, but Blayne doesn’t give me time to actually read the thing. Instead, he rolls it back up, tucks it in his jacket, and glares at me.

“Drink that yourself,” he says slowly, waving a hand at the goblet on the table, “or I will call guards in here to hold you while I force it down your throat.”

I swallow hard. My mouth feels dry, and my stomach is already churning. I remember the days of agonizing cramps and heavy bleeding that came every time he made me drink that horrible tea.

I reach for the goblet, then gag as the smell hits my nostrils. I imagine throwing it, or dropping it, or even hitting Blayne in the face with the goblet and running.

But Blayne now has a piece of parchment that says he owns me. And I’m sure he has more of that horrible tea.

So I bring the goblet to my lips.

Chapter 70

Zarek

QUITE ILL

It’s almost dark by the time someone finally approaches the little carriage. I freeze, certain they’re going to inspect the inside, because how much of an idiot would you have to be to not double-check something like that?

But instead, the carriage just rocks and shifts as someone harnesses a horse to the front, then retreats. I hold my body as motionless as possible, breathing as quietly as I can while I listen to my heart hammer out a list of all the stupid things I’ve done in my life. The horse outside snorts, and the carriage rocks slightly every time it shifts. A dim flicker of torchlight falls across the far seat from the open door; I make sure it’s not touching any part of my body.

“She’ll need to travel in the carriage,” a man announces from the darkness. “She’s not in the best of health.”

I know that voice. I close my eyes and hold my breath until a face rises in my memory.

Fuck. It’s him, the spy for Vsenrog. The one who walked out of the dungeons last night. The man who had his pants down in my bedroom, with my godsdamned wife. Blayne. Why does he keep showing up?

“Take her straight to my estate,” the spy continues. “And tell the women to clean her up before I arrive. Understood?”

Someone mutters in agreement.

And then I hear something else, something that makes me feel like I’m being ripped apart. Sobbing. Soft and quiet, like she’s trying to hide it.

My hand drops to the rusty blade in my belt. When that door opens, I could jump out. I could plant my knife right between the eyes of the man I should have killed when I had the chance.

The door swings open. But it’s not the spy who fills the doorway.

It’s my wife.

I hold perfectly still, waiting for the moment when her eyes meet mine, when she’ll either recognize me or scream. The rest of the world is suddenly very quiet.