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“You’re clever, vicious, and you were one of the queen’s ladies for years. I’d be a fool not to use you.”
Our eyes had met, and I’d understood. Prisca had known that if I’d stayed just a few more days in that tent, something in me would have shriveled up and died.
So she’d gotten me out.
And now she was the one who was trapped, and at risk of truly dying within days, if not hours.
“Fuck,” I hissed.
All I wanted was to be left alone. And now, I was going to have to decipher the queen’s fucking riddle and find a way to save the hybrid heir.
Before she was slaughtered by the same man who’d killed my father.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, we left as soon as the sun rose, moving north. We traveled quickly, pushing the horses and ourselves, and only resting when necessary. Fatigue weighed on me constantly. My muscles, my bones, my joints…my entire body hurt. But I rested when I could, and I fell exhausted onto my blankets as soon as the sun fell each night.
We were always up and moving as soon as dawn lightened the sky.
None of us spoke more than necessary. Lorian bristled with unspent power—all while emanating a deep rage that kept all of us on edge.
Tonight, he’d disappeared somewhere, likely to see if the rumors of another regiment close by were true. Demos was seeing to the horses, while I unpacked our meager food supplies.
That was as much as I was allowed to help when it came to setting up our camp each night. I hadn’t bothered to argue. My injury had cost us too much time already.
So I sat on the log Demos had pulled near our fire and willed Prisca to stay alive.
I’d once thought that if you hoped and wished and worked hard enough, you could achieve almost any dream. My mother had said that over and over while I was growing up. When I learned what I was—and that my mother might have either known or even been a hybrid herself—I’d caught myself hoping my father was the hybrid, the man who’d left my mother when I was just months old.
At least then, my mother wouldn’t have purposefully kept me in the dark.
My dream had once been to travel to the city and work as a seamstress for the queen. I would dress all the most important people, working with the kinds of fabrics I’d only dreamed of. My designs would set trends as nobles noticed what I could do. I wanted to be wealthy. I wanted to be respected. I wanted to be someone.
Now, my heart ached for just one more quiet morning with my mother in our tiny home, the comforting scents of woodsmoke, dried herbs, and fabric surrounding us.
Our home had never been large, but the rolls of silk and cotton, stacks of wool, and the worktable had kept my imagination alive—the myriad of colors and textures representing so much possibility.
“What are you thinking?”
I jolted, meeting Demos’s amber eyes. “Just…remembering. Life in my village. With my mother. I’m wondering what she’d think of me now. Sometimes I’m worried that I’m forgetting her. What her laugh sounded like. How she smelled.”
Demos finished brushing my horse and wandered over to the fire, hands in his pockets. He was so…male. He took up space wherever he was, drawing gazes, speculation, and especially feminine interest.
I didn’t understand how his body had gained so much muscle so quickly. It was as if it had remembered who he’d obviously been before his imprisonment and reverted to that same form overnight. His shirt molded to his chest, his biceps, and especially his shoulders. Every few weeks, he was forced to buy new shirts or risk splitting them at the seams.
He met my eyes. “Her laugh was surprisingly high and loud, considering how soft-spoken she was. It drew attention and made her blush, so she didn’t laugh often. She smelled like wool and rosemary. One of her front teeth was chipped from an accident when she was small, and she was self-conscious about it. She’d sometimes cover her smile or duck her head. You hated that.
“Her hands were callused from her work, but gentle—especially when you were unwell. And when you needed to talk, she would stop whatever she was doing and face you. She always gave you her complete attention, so you knew how important you were.”
My throat went tight and hot, and it was suddenly difficult to breathe.
I could see her again, sitting at her loom by the window. Could hear the hum of the spinning wheel, the sound of her laugh.
My voice came out raw, hoarse.
“How do you…” Of course. Demos had made me talk to him in that dungeon. As soon as I was strong enough, he’d insisted I keep talking, even when I’d wanted nothing more than to let my grief and hopelessness swallow me whole.
I just hadn’t expected him to have memorized everything I’d told him.
