Page 33 of The Stolen Crown

And I was about to board a ship under his command, trapped for days with no escape.

10

The Heartwalker

I abandoned the grove, abandoned the princess, and nearly sprinted to a hot spring I passed on the way to our reckless spar.

At the edge of the spring, I dropped to my knees, eyes clenched, waiting. Waiting.

My fingernails dug into the soil, steam from the spring heated my cheeks, but the poisonous twist of nausea did not flash to the surface.

Little by little, instead of a prickling sick, my skin burned. Not painfully or harshly. It was a rolling warmth that spread through my veins.

I peered through my lashes, studying the clouds of white steam on the black surface of the spring. Why was the bile not rising in my mouth? Why did it not feel as though my insides were bubbling out of my pores?

Mira’s arms had been wrapped around my neck. I could practically feel the remnants of the pressure. Her fingers dragged over my shoulders. I shuddered when a phantom touch whispered behind my neck, down my spine.

Almost enjoyable.

Every surface of my body was alive, as it always was when too many folk stood too near, when too many hands were placed on my skin.

But this was different, like stepping near a roaring hearth after the chill of a storm.

I blinked, still leaning over the hot water, shoulders rising in heavy breaths. Three hells, I hated touch. And I hated her touch, for I could not puzzle out why I craved it.

I wanted it off, wanted it gone.

Near the bank were tufts of blue moss. As I did whenever my skin felt like it was creeping with the painful lingering fingers of others, I used the moss as a cloth, dipping it into the pool, then scrubbing it over the back of my neck. I pulled my tunic over my head and cleansed my chest, my arms, each motion growing more frenzied. My breath grew static, sharp. My teeth ground together.

I washed away her touch until my panic convinced my mind that the gentle warmth of Mira’s hands felt as wretched as everyone else’s.

When the clump of moss was nothing but crushed strands, I slumped back on the soft grass of the bank. Eyes closed, I forced my pulse to slow and let the rising sun heat the raw patches of skin I’d scrubbed too fiercely.

One arm draped over my face. I was a bleeding fool. For turns, I’d kept my head, kept the darkness of an agonizing past carefully tucked in the shadows of my mind, where it belonged. I did not trouble others, did not do more than try to keep my cousin’s rule safe, protected, and honored.

But since reuniting with earth fae—with her—I could not keep my head. The ground tilted. Strands of control over my life that were once unbreakable kept fraying and splitting whenever she spoke or laughed.

Damn her.

When we returned, I had to demand Erik remove me from any interaction with the glamour princess. Even if I had to confess my weaknesses to my cousin, I could no longer survive being around the woman.

For Mira Sekundär, from the moment she clung to me, trapped within a sea singer’s trance, had been unraveling every thread keeping my carefully woven peace in place.

The midday sun was warm and high. Salt wafted on the air, and seafowl shrieked overhead, diving for finned meals. A perfect day to set to sea.

I tossed a burlap sack of fae grain pearls into the lower galley. Seableeder grunted when the pack struck him in the back of the head. “Damn you. Watch where ye be droppin’ supplies, ye tosser.”

I ignored his complaints and made my way to the helm. From inside my pocket, I removed my tin of paper smokes, tucked the end of one between my lips, and lit its other end.

Skies were clear. A gust of fragrant air snapped the rigging and the ashen canvas sails. I curled my fingers around one of the handles on the helm and drew in a long pull from the smoke. No sign of the princess. A frown curved over my mouth. My bleeding royal charge had better keep her end of the bargain and get her ass on board soon.

The lush pathway that cut from the harbor was darkened with morning shadows, coated in wispy mists that looked like shards of silk around the cobbles, and entirely empty of Mira.

Another puff of smoke. Another release of breath. Again. Again. Again.

“Oi! Our lady’s entourage be here.” Nightseer, straddled on the bowsprit, pointed toward the dock.

True enough. A trail along the shore rattled with a coach and four riders with jagged spears. I blew out a final cloud of smoke and tossed the rest of the rolled paper over the rail.