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“Of course, I’m not lost,” Elma snapped, sweeping past the guard. “I grew up in this filth. Where is the assassin?”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” spluttered the guard. He and two others clustered around her as if to protect her from the scenes unfolding as she strode through the dank corridor. She passed rooms full of death, injured men, bloody armor, discarded weaponry. “You shouldn’t be down here. My orders—”
“Yourorders,” Elma said, turning on the guard, “come from your queen and your queen alone. I wish to speak to the assassin, and you will take me to him.”
The guards shared a glance.
“He may not be up to much talking,” one of them said.
Elma raised her eyebrows. “Did I ask for an opinion?”
“No, but—”
“Take Her Majesty to the prisoner,” said the first guard, interrupting hurriedly. “Apologies, my queen, we’re not… accustomed to royalty down here.”
Elma regarded him coolly. “See that you become accustomed to me.”
By the time they came to Rune’s cell, Elma’s heart was fluttering in her throat, blood racing in her veins. This was reckless, ill-informed,mad. But she didn’t allow herself time to think, to wonder, to doubt.
“He’s been patched up a bit,” said the guard who hadaccompanied her, “and he’ll live, but he looks like the Fang chewed him up and shit him out. Pardon my language.”
“Leave me,” said Elma, and the guard departed.
She fixed her gaze on the assassin. He wasn’t unconscious, he wasn’t on his deathbed. He sat in a tiny cell, even smaller than the one in the dungeon, his head in his hands. He wore only trousers and a bloody shirt, his leathers nowhere to be seen. Bloodstained sawdust carpeted the floor, and there was a tang of vomit in the air. She could hardly believe it.
Lost for words, Elma gaped at the man until he lifted his head slowly. This time, he didn’t smile. “You again,” he croaked. Angry red-purple bruises marred his neck where the Fang had squeezed. He was bandaged in several places. His face was cut and swollen.
“You should be dead,” Elma said, unthinking.
He leveled a long, steady look at her. One of his ice-blue eyes was half-closed from swelling. “Want to finish me off?” He almost smiled then, a pained, pathetic curl of the lips. He was clearly suffering, though a lesser man would have been dead.Shouldhave been.
“On the contrary,” Elma said. “I have a proposition for you.”
Rune’s eyes brightened with interest. “I’m a bit worse for wear, but if Her Majesty doesn’t mind a lackluster lay…”
“Don’t make me change my mind,” Elma snapped in disgust. “I can put you back in the arena right now.”
He laughed briefly, a hacking choke. “What’s the proposition?”
You’re being a fool,thought Elma.You’re signing your own death warrant. But she ignored her better judgment and leaned into her birthright. Mistrust, bloodlust, and by any means the upper hand.“I need a bodyguard.”
“Congratulations.” He coughed, blood flecking his sleeve. “Where do I come in?”
“You’re the bodyguard.”
Slowly, he leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re kidding, right? This is your adorable way of playing with me like a cat with its mouse?”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Yes, you would.” He grinned lopsidedly. “Your father would.”
How did he always manage to derail her like this? Elma set her jaw. “I’m deadly serious. In a few minutes, my uncle and guards will come swarming in, and this time I’ll let them kill you. Unless you agree to my deal.”
“You want me to be… your bodyguard.” Rune licked cracked lips and frowned. “Why?”
Elma had no choice — he wouldn’t believe that she was genuine unless she showed him her hand. “I know my advisors hired you to kill me. I overheard them discussing it, so there’s no point in denying it. You failed, and now you’re going to die. But it doesn’t have to be that way. They won’t stop until I’m dead. And the only person I know who won’t benefit in any way from my death is you.”
“Except, of course, whatever payment they’ve hypothetically promised to me.”
