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Maybe I’m losing my mind like my father did. Is this what he feels like? To this day, he is adamant that he sees the truth unfolding before him, and yet everyone around him insists on a different version. I mean, soldiers with swords and a medieval city no one knows of? Two moons? I’m seeing it with my eyes, but have I created all of this in my mind? Is this what it feels like to suffer from delusions that are so vivid, you can’t possibly accept them as false?
I remember Sofie driving that jagged black horn through my chest, and yet Boaz insists he shot me with an arrow. We both remember two versions of a truth that would explain why my chest aches and my gown is stained in blood, and yet neither of those explanations seems plausible.
Is any of it true?
With shaky fingers, I shift the blanket away. As absurd as this dress may be with all its layers and pomp and cleavage-baring style, it must have been stunning before it was ruined. Whoever made it spent countless hours stitching swirls and flowers in golden thread.
The bodice is stiff and formfitting, and it takes effort and the removal of a sleeve to peel the material past the swell of my breast so I can better examine the tender spot in the dusky light. I grimace at the mottled, deep-purplish red mark. I was expecting to find a gash, and yet my skin isn’t broken. It looks like nothing more than a nasty bruise.
But I remember that horn piercing—
“You heal fast for someone who was dead.”
I startle at the voice, yanking the blanket up to cover myself, my cheeks flushing. I recognize that chilly, calm tone. It’s the king. Zander. How did he sneak in without making a sound? And how long has he been standing in the shadows, watching me?
A key rattles the lock.
My panic swells as the door swings open with a yawning creak. He ducks as he steps through. Gone is the armor, exchanged for a sleek black ensemble, including a jacket that meets the boots at his knees. Without a helm covering most of his face, I see that he’s young—older than me, but younger than I’d picture a king to be. Not that I’ve ever given the age of a king much thought. The rest of his olive-skinned features are as hard and angular as his jaw, framed by a mane of golden-brown hair that sweeps backward off his face in waves, reaching his nape.
Cold eyes bore into me as he approaches, his hands hanging at his side, next to the scabbard that holds his sword. The jeweled dagger is also within reach, strapped to his thigh.
The thief in me wonders if I could relieve him of the smaller weapon without his notice. But the reason I succeed at depriving people of their belongings is because they don’t suspect me. Zander was a split second away from driving that dagger through my chest earlier because he suspects me of a great deal worse than theft. He thinks I murdered his parents.
That I’m still alive is a miracle.
“Stand,” he commands, stopping a mere foot away, his hands flexing.
I oblige, not wanting to give him an excuse to kill me on the spot.
He seemed a titan earlier in all that armor. Now, he looms over me, tall and broad-shouldered, but not inhumanly so. He’s no less daunting, though. And he is to be king. Even if this place and these people mean nothing to me, I sense the aura of power radiating from him. An arrogance.
His piercing gaze has settled on me. I struggle to maintain composure, focusing on the lapel of his jacket as I scramble to find the right words to convince him I’m not the Romeria he thinks I am.
He reaches for a corner of the woolen blanket, and his intentions quickly become clear.
On instinct, I curl my arms tighter against my body, and spear him with a glare of warning.
His eyebrow arches. “So now you’re modest around me?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. Show me the wound. Now.”
I’m nowhere strong enough to fight him off if he forces himself on me, and I’d rather have some control of the situation. Reluctantly, I lower the edge of the blanket, just far enough that he can see my bruised skin and nothing more. Not that he didn’t already get a good look, lurking within the shadows.
I tense as he reaches out, grazing his fingertip across where something injured me, horn or arrow. Despite his obvious hatred for me, his touch is gentle.
And despite my terror, a shiver courses through my body.
After a long moment, he pulls away. He turns his back to me and begins pacing around my tiny cell.
I take the moment to adjust my dress, wincing from the trouble.
“You’ve been busy these past weeks, playing the benevolent charmer, seeking peace between our people, all while plotting to wipe out my entire family. Don’t bother trying to deny it. We’ve questioned your servants, the ones who survived. They all confessed. And quickly, I might add.”
I have servants?
“You succeeded at killing my parents. Atticus narrowly missed an arrow through his heart, and Annika was certainly dead until you rescued her. I can’t figure that one out, but I’m sure you have your reasons. Perhaps a goodwill gesture when you realized you were being pursued? Still, I’m surprised you didn’t put up a fight.”
