Page 60 of Bride of Ash & Dust

And then he’s gone. His hand releases my wrist, his leg pulls back.

“Give me a minute,” he says.

I huff. My heart feels like it’s trying to batter its way out of my rib cage. There’s a clatter as he drops the chamber pot that he pulled from my hands. A moment later, there’s a scrape, a hiss, and a match bursts into life. The light from the flame makes his face glow as he brings the match to a candle.

His dark hair is wet, and a few stray raindrops trace a path down his cheeks. He looks tired. He turns back to me and attempts to smile.

“I’m sorry about this,” he says, waving his hand at the chamber pot on the floor.

I sniff. “What’s wrong? Was the brothel full tonight?”

His eyes dance, and his smile deepens. “Why? Are you jealous?”

“Of course not,” I huff.

He turns, opens the door to the bathing chamber, and disappears inside. A moment later, he comes back, rubbing a towel over his face.

“I am sorry,” he says as he pulls the towel over the back of his neck. “I had no idea you were such a light sleeper.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “There is a door to this room, you know.”

He grins. His dark eyes dance in the candlelight. He lifts his arm, unbuttons his cuff, and rolls up his sleeve.

“You fought well,” he says. “This is going to leave a mark.”

There’s a large red welt on his forearm that’s exactly the size and shape of the chamber pot’s curved edge.

“Shit,” I blurt. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he replies. “I don’t know many princesses who would have the guts to fight back like that.”

I swallow. I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be a compliment or not.

Probably not. Hitting a man with a chamber pot is something a milkmaid would do, not a princess. I think of my father, red-faced and screaming, and turn to stare at the ground.

“And I don’t sleep at the brothel,” Zarek adds softly.

I glance up. He draped the towel over his shoulders, and now he’s staring at the mirror like he’s trying to determine if there’s anyone standing behind it. I cross my arms over my chest. Now that I’ve escaped from the bed, the room feels cold.

“I know,” I say.

He told me he sleeps in the stables. I don’t have any reason to believe him, but strangely, I do. It just seems like such an unlikely thing to lie about.

Zarek turns to face me. The candlelight plays off the shadows under his eyes.

“I don’t do anything in the brothel,” he says. “I paid Rose to tell everyone I’m to blame for the newest bun in her oven. I thought that would be the best way to keep attention away from you. But, if it bothers you, I’ll go somewhere else.”

I snort and turn away. My eyes suddenly sting, and I’m not at all sure how to respond. None of what he just said makes sense; if my husband is going to a brothel every night, I’d have to be an idiot to believe he’s not doing what every other man does in a brothel.

So why do I believe him?

I remember the last time I saw Elrick, when he slipped into my tent as I traveled with the soldiers of Vsenrog to my wedding. He said the mayors of Marion had seen armed visitors from Vsenrog crossing the border. He said to be careful, and then he hugged me and whispered don’t trust the snake.

Great. The last piece of advice my brother gave me, and I’m struggling to follow it.

I shake my head. It doesn’t matter where Zarek spends his nights, or with whom. Royal marriages aren’t supposed to be paradigms of fidelity. Still⁠—

“Why did you come in through the window?” I ask.