Page 19 of The Nymph King

Ralnor never slowed or looked back. Ellisar’s household clearly knew where authority rested, and no one here seemed inclined to make decisions that belonged to the High Sentinel.

If she could convince Ellisar that she was the true monarch, she could convince the realm.

* * *

Her assigned room was just as marvelous as the rest of the house.

Pale walls reflected the late-afternoon light streaming through two tall windows overlooking the gardens, and sheer curtains stirred in the breeze from the cracked panes. A wide bed sat under a carved wooden canopy at the far wall, dressed in layers of white and silver blankets that looked far too expensive to touch with dirty hands. A low bench stood at its foot, while a pair of upholstered chairs faced a small fireplace built into the opposite wall. Fresh flowers sat on the mantel, their scent faint under the stronger smell of hot water and soap drifting from the adjoining bathing room.

A wardrobe filled one side of the room, already stocked with several gowns and nightclothes in her approximate size. Someone had also left a tray of fruit, bread, and cheese beside a pitcher of water on a small table by the windows. Nothing about the space felt hastily prepared, even though she had arrived unannounced. That, more than the luxury, impressed her. Ellisar’s household seemed designed to absorb disruption.

Imani ignored the ladies’ maids waiting for her to call them in and immediately set to work scrubbing the grime and travel dust from her body. The bathing room held a deep stone tub, large enough for her to stretch her legs, with brass fixtures and shelves crowded with soaps, oils, folded towels, and combs. Steam filled the room as she scrubbed dried mud from her skin and worked knots from her hair. Imani had kept her soul-draw dimmed and her brands and scars glamoured, but otherwise it felt freeing to be simply… Imani.

When the maids entered after she’d finished, they fussed over her hair, calling it lovely. Instead of braiding it as usual, they let the long locks hang free, framing her face and curling just enough to look presentable. She had to admit that wearing her hair long like this looked quite beautiful… and she might do it again.

After the maids helped her into her nightgown, she crossed the thick rug covering most of the floor and crawled into the huge bed. The mattress gave beneath her weight, and she immediately hugged one of the oversized pillows to her chest. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender, and the blankets were heavy enough to make the room feel warmer than it was.

Kiran had pillows like these. She loved them. That was why she always went to his room instead of hers for feeding.

Oh!

She bolted upright, heart pounding.

Feeding.

This was going to be a problem again. Imani fell back into the pillow and let out a rush of air. Why couldn’t she have a normal heartmate who loved her, went everywhere with her, and cared for her? Imani was independent, but she could admit the appeal of having such a partner.

But she got Kiran.

He wasn’t a partner or an equal, at least in anything that mattered. Kiran was far more volatile and bound to her in a way that refused to simplify into a matter she could control. That complication would follow her wherever she went, which meant she would have to learn to use it rather than escape it.

Imani clenched her fists, thinking of him—that utterly mad bastard.

She turned over and faced the darkening windows. Beyond the glass, the estate's white stone reflected the last light of evening, while the gardens below disappeared into shadow. Somewhere else in the enormous house, servants moved through halls she did not know, preparing rooms and meals and tending to the High Sentinel’s business as though a fugitive queen’s arrival had changed nothing.

Imani decided feeding would be a problem for another day; she could go another week or two, then beg Esa to help her if needed. As her eyes drifted shut, she pretended she was not alone in the bed, held tight by a warm, powerful body sleeping close to her.

CHAPTER 6

KIRAN

Afew hours earlier, another roar tore from Kiran’s throat at the sight of the Norn mercenaries continuing toward Vathis. Fire spilled from his maw in a burst of flames and heat.

He had already tried to take her from them, but the Draswood intervened. Massive roots had blocked his path to the cart, turned his attacks away from the remaining Norn, and rebuilt themselves every time he burned through them. Worse, when Imani had told him she would not return with him, the forest had answered her refusal. It hadn't attacked Kiran, but it made one thing painfully clear: while she remained within its canopy, he would not reach her by force.

So, Kiran circled high overhead, alone and unseen.

His superior eyesight kept the caravan visible through breaks in the trees. The arrangement below had already changed. Imani was no longer bound. Several mercenaries were dead, their bodies abandoned behind the moving party after the poison from her crown had killed them, and the survivors now gave her a wide berth. Whatever authority they had imagined they possessed over her had disappeared.

It should have pleased him, but instead, it made his irritation worse because they were no longer dragging his heartmate toward Vathis as a prisoner. Imani seemed to be going willingly, and until she left the Draswood, Kiran could do nothing.

The mercenaries’ formation rotated positions, and they scanned the tree line. They were on edge, knowing what they carried. Or at least, they knew she mattered.

His attention returned to the cart. To her.

Even from this height, even through the cover of wood and shadow, he could feel her. The pull had only intensified since the Under, constant enough to make everything else feel secondary.

They had bound her. The thought sent another wave of fury through his chest. Bound her as though she were a beast that needed taming. They did not know what she was or what she could become.