Page 82 of Bride of Ash & Dust

The man laughs. It’s not a nice laugh, not like he’s trying to be polite. No, he laughs like there’s a great big joke here, and I’m not in on it.

“You didn’t drink the wine,” he drawls.

My chest flutters as I glance at the wooden goblet, then back at the man who just entered our tent. Some insane part of me wants to apologize for not drinking the wine, because my gods, was that rude?

The men fan out against the tent walls, their boots loud on the wood.

They’re surrounding me. Panic pulls tight in my gut. I’ve practiced fighting and escaping from holds, but only against one person. Not against four.

“Come here, lady,” the servant says.

He holds the rope up, like he’s offering it to me. My back stiffens.

“Where is Prince Zarek?” I demand.

All four of the men laugh at this. Something howls inside my chest; I lock it down. One of the men looks familiar, although I’m not sure why.

“Your prince is passed out drunk on the floor,” the servant replies.

The men laugh even harder. The wild beast of panic pulls at the back of my throat. That doesn’t sound right. Not when he knew I was waiting for him. Not when he said he’d be right back. And yet⁠—

“Ain’t that cute?” the man on my left sneers. “The bitch fell for the snake.”

I know that voice. He’s one of the soldiers from Vsenrog who escorted me from Marion to the palace.

The servant with the rope takes a step closer.

“Gentlemen,” I say, as my hands flutter down the front of my dress. “You are servants of Vsenrog.”

I smile at their hard, taut faces. They do not smile back.

“Please,” I continue. “I am your princess⁠—”

The man on my left moves so quickly I don’t even have time to flinch. My head rocks back as his hand smacks my face. Pain explodes inside my skull. My vision flashes white and floods with tears, and the taste of blood spreads across my tongue.

I blink as the world swims into focus. The man who hit me shakes his hand out, like he’s dirtied it by touching me.

My father used to do that. After he hit me. He was the only one who was allowed to hit the princess.

“Shut up,” the man growls. “You ain’t shit.”

There’s a sharp edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

“This would have been easier if you’d drunk the wine,” the servant says.

The servant is right in front of me now, his massive chest blocking the door. I pull a ragged breath over my broken, bleeding lips and think about the dagger strapped to my thigh. If I pulled it out now and tried to stab him, what would happen? Would he step away?

Or would he just laugh?

“You’re coming with us,” he finishes.

I glance over my shoulder at the bed behind me, with its mountains of scarlet pillows and blankets. The tent wall is just behind it; perhaps if I climb across the bed quickly enough⁠—

No. I’d never make it. And if they’re willing to hit me, the gods only know what else they’re willing to do.

I swallow hard, then turn toward the servant.

“Very well,” I say. “Where are we going?”