Page 81 of Bride of Ash & Dust

Great. I mentally apologize to Lilias for ever setting foot outside of the tent that was specifically designed for fucking, and I lift the goblet. The wine in here might be fortified, but one glass isn’t going to put me on my ass.

I tilt my head, open my throat, and drain the entire goblet. The men cheer. It tastes worse this time, and that undertone is stronger, almost bitter. I slam the carved goblet down on the table. The room pulses a little around the edges.

“Thank you, Prince Syvan,” I say, with as much dignity as I can muster. My mouth doesn’t seem to be working very well.

Syvan is still laughing. Everyone is still laughing. That pulse of alarm beats again, screaming around the inside of my skull.

Something is wrong here. Dangerously wrong. I need to get back to Lilias, she kissed me⁠—

I shove back from the table. My chair falls over, hitting the floor. The men are still laughing, and the tent is spinning. How am I going to walk across the floor if it won’t stop moving?

“Prince Zarek,” Syvan says, turning the word prince into a sneer, an insult. “Drunk again. Well, you’ve all seen it. Some men just can’t handle their wine.”

Out of the spinning chaos around me, my eyes fall on the beautiful carved wooden goblet that Syvan’s second-in-command just gave me. The dark liquid inside. The bitter aftertaste.

Drugged, I realize numbly. They drugged me.

No, I counter as the floor slams up to hit me in the face. I should have known better than to take a drink from Lyam. To trust anything from Prince Syvan.

The men are still laughing as the world goes dark. My mind forms one final coherent thought before the drugs drag me under.

Syvan didn’t do this.

I let this happen.

Chapter 45

Lilias

I AM YOUR PRINCESS

I’m pacing.

I stop and run my hands up and down my arms, even though it’s not remotely cold inside this tent. If anything, it’s too warm, and the air is heavy with perfumed smoke.

My stomach grumbles. I turn to the table. The massive man who said he would bring our supper did eventually come back, but he only brought a wooden goblet of wine, and something about the look on his face made me think it wouldn’t be a good idea to ask when supper would be ready.

I start pacing again. The wine might help me relax, true, but it smells strong. And I can’t stop thinking about the way Zarek’s lip curled on our wedding night, or how cold his voice was the next morning when he said he dislikes drugs. That he is never intimate with anyone who is drunk or drugged.

Something flutters in my chest, and I swallow hard. The wine was a lovely offer, yes, and the carved wooden goblet they brought me really is exquisite.

But I can’t be drunk when Zarek comes back to this tent.

Because, may all the gods forgive me, I want to be intimate with him. And I’m ready to beg if that’s what it takes to get his hand between my legs again, his lips on my neck, his fingers doing what he did this morning⁠—

There’s a thud on the wooden platform of the tent. My breath catches, and I spin toward the door. The tent flap flutters, and I quickly run a hand through my hair. Maybe I should be in bed? Or, no, that might be too forward. Maybe I should meet Zarek at the door?

The flap opens, and a man steps inside.

He’s not Zarek.

He comes closer. My mind finally identifies him as the massive servant who said he would bring supper. But he’s not holding supper in his hands.

He’s holding a rope.

Three other men step into the tent behind him, their boots heavy on the wooden platform. Something hits me in the thighs, and I realize I’ve backed up against the bed. My chest feels tight, like all the perfumed smoke in here is making it hard to breathe.

“C-Can I help you?” I ask.