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“They came from the god Isles,” I proudly define, back straightening. Warmth radiates throughout my body, and the blanket nudges lower to expose my cleavage. I beam at him. Flutter my lashes.
If the King notices my action, he doesn’t betray himself unlike when he first stepped into the room. Oh, I didn’t need his mask off to detect the telltale rise and fall of his chest beneath his robes. Or the way he’d tensed, the mask popping to betray his cheek muscle.
If the Corpse King is attracted to me, if he’s tempted, perhaps the God of Death may be tempted, too. Or conquered.
Allysteir wags the knife before slitting the sides of the pomegranate, marked by their white walls. “Should have expected a farm girl to know. Yes, my grandmother, my father’s mother?the eighth Corpse King bride?her soul pleased Kryach, he granted her one favor.”
I lift my brows, awed. A favor from the God of Death is no small matter. Listening, I track his movements, marveling at how smoothly he slices the fruit, given how half of him is a corpse, but I imagine five hundred years of living like one has afforded him much practice.
I blush from how he coddles the fruit, massaging it to segment it until he exposes the fleshy innards of ripe pomegranate seeds?broken by the pale center pulp. My mouth waters. I’m panting. Pomegranates are reserved for the elite underneath these five mountains.
“She could have asked for anything. Kryach would have granted her a soul roused from the Nether-Void itself. But my grandmother requested a piece of the Isles. A celestial boon as it were. She believed he would gift her with a star. And in a way...he did,” he confirms after digging out the ghostly center, opening the fruit to a burgundy star-like flower, gushing its rich, sweet perfume into the air.
Eager for the offering, I part my lips, lurching until Allysteir wags a gloved finger back and forth. “Patience is a fruit, too, Isla.”
I nudge my lower lip out in a pronounced pout. He chuckles, turns the pomegranate upside down, and knocks his knife hilt against the skin for the seeds to scatter into a golden bowl. Like gleaming ruby drops, they tumble. I thread my fingers to resist the urge to pounce and bury my face in the bowl. Careless of whether the blanket would pool to the floor. Heat colors my neck and cheeks, but my Nether-mark is still.
“It’s an ancient belief that this fruit can indeed cure a broken heart.”
Pensive, I tilt my head to the side, wondering if the vital muscle’s beat is visible through his ribcage. “Is your heart broken, Allysteir?” I wonder softly.
“Everything about me is broken, Isla,” he states but offers no glimpse behind the robes or the skeletal eye mask.
More patting the fruit. More delectable seeds spill from its bosom. “My grandmother ate six seeds from the resplendent fruit, then planted the rest along the western banks of the Isle of Bones where the water is warmest. Perhaps I will take you there.” He finishes tapping, though a sprinkling of rubied nubs still nudges the inner skin.
I lean forward, but Allysteir covers the bowl with his palm, delaying me again.
“My King!” I moan, my mouth watering from the tantalizing fruit echoing of Eyleanan, and squeeze my eyes shut, gushing breath.
“First, you must know, my bride-to-be.” He taps one gloved index finger along the bowl’s edge, tempting.
I open my eyes to the vacant corpse orbs, hungering for what lies beyond the mask. My fingers ache to strip it from his face as I did in the Skull Ruins, to share something real between us. But real must be earned. My Nether-mark is my mask. The irony. He will earn mine when I’ve already stolen his.
“Isla.” Allysteir lifts the bowl, rises, circles the table to stand before me.
Cheeks burning, I hold my breath, clench the robe to my chest, raise my chin, and expose my neck in a subtle boon. “Corpse King?”
He sighs, chin lowering, but he doesn’t move the bowl toward me. “Your word is true. Forbidden pleasures are indeed the sweetest. I cannot touch you, nor claim a kiss until we are wed.
“There has never been a bride tribute such as you. The only one who ever truly volunteered was groomed for the life, offered as a sacrifice by the nobility. Aryahn Kryach...is pleased with you, Isla. Your flesh, your blood.”
I beam, convinced I’m about to burst into flames. Hellfire ones. I creep a hand toward the bowl, to the fleshy seeds shining like dragon scales. But Allysteir tugs the bowl out of my reach.
“Allysteir!” I loose an anguished breath.
“Isla...”
He strokes a glove across my cheek to my lips, but I nip the tip, my teeth discovering bone and not finger. I grin through clenched teeth.
The King sighs, retrieving his finger, then taps my nose as if scolding a child. I pout playfully, but he bends at the waist until his brow touches mine?his skull mask black eyes haunting. I lose all breath and freeze. “Aryahn Kryach does not offer the bounties of the heaven freely. This is Kryach’s fruit. If you eat of this, you must accept his shadow mark.”
The smile I’d donned from Kryach’s pleasure and mine and Allysteir’s banter dissipates at the mention of the price. At first, I pause, about to ask dozens of questions, but I’ve lost the will to speak. The King brought this fruit. To our first meal before we are wed. Forbidden fruit. Like my forbidden flesh.
It leaves me with only three questions.
“What does it mean, Allysteir?” I whisper.
He places his gloved fingers underneath my chin as he had on our official meeting. Tender. Soothing. It reminds me of the time in the garderobe. “It means you may never leave the Underworld beneath Nathyan Gyeal. The White Ladies will be your new and last home. And as you know, if the God of Death does not reap your soul when we consummate the marriage, your life, your soul will be bound to mine. An immortal Feyal-bride. A Queen.”
