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But he did not draw blood, not yet.
Her lungs heaved. Uncomfortable sweat soaked her back and the dip between her breasts. “Well?” she gasped, not daring to move with Rune’s steel against her skin. She wondered if he was contemplating killing her, whether it might solve more problems for him than it would cause.
“It would be a shame,” Rune said, almost crooning in her ear, “to mar your lovely neck. Let’s say I’ve won and leave it there.”
“A Slödavan, reluctant to draw blood?” Elma said, keenly aware of how close she was to Rune, noting every breath he took, every place where their bodies touched. She felt him as bright as a star, a fire burning through winter’s chill. His breathruffled her hair.
“Reluctance has nothing to do with it,” Rune murmured. His voice sent shivers down Elma’s spine. “As much as I’d happily…” he paused, a shaky-hot exhale warming Elma’s skin. “I’dprefernot to explain myself to your men when you greet them with a bandaged neck. But I urge you to remember, Queen of Rothen, that you are alive only because I allow it.”
A wash of incomprehensible emotion filled Elma to the brim. Something like fear or rage or lust, perhaps a mixture of the three, pulsed through her veins. She wanted to rip the sword from his grip and gut him with it. She wanted to watch him writhe and bleed on the flagstones, begging for mercy. She wanted to feel his hands on her, to know what else he might elicit, what mad, hateful ardor he could summon forth.
And then he dropped his hand, the blade no longer at her throat. She took a long, shaking breath, and moved to separate herself from him. But his left arm remained crooked around her shoulders from behind, holding her in place.
His words were low, his lips faintly brushing her hair as he spoke. “One day, you’ll let me in on those twisted thoughts of yours.”
Elma’s elbow caught him in the ribs, and he gasped, releasing his grip. She spun on him, hating herself for the way she drank in the sight. He stood so casually there in the courtyard, lazily sliding his blade back into its scabbard as he chuckled, his gaze caught on hers.
“Rude,” he said, rubbing his chest where she’d elbowed him. “I thought we weren't playing dirty.”
“I said nothing about that,” Elma replied, fixing him with a pointed glare. “We only set parameters for points. I’ll play as dirty as I like.”
The assassin grinned. “You always know exactly what to say.”
Elma was so caught up in Rune, his jagged smile and impenetrable armor, that she didn’t notice Godwin approaching them until he spoke.
“Your Majesty,” he said, his mouth tight in a disapproving frown. He wore his armor, no longer dressed as a lord but as a warrior. “I beg a moment of your time.”
Elma bent to pick up her sword and sheathed it, consciously ignoring Rune. Ignoring the way her heart still hammered in her chest. “Of course, Uncle,” she said. “What is it?”
“Alone,” Godwin said, his gaze shifting to the assassin.
“He’s my bodyguard.”
“And he’ll give us a moment alone,” Godwin said, “by your order.”
Turning, Elma caught Rune’s eye and nodded. The assassin bowed stiffly at the waist in capitulation, then strolled across the courtyard until he was well out of earshot.
Godwin gave Elma a long look. “Sparring with the enemy,” he said at last, the fingers of one hand flexing and unflexing, the other braced on his sword pommel. “Have I taught you nothing?”
“I’m unharmed,” Elma said, defiant in the face of childlike scolding. “I needed an outlet, fresh air, to move my body. Or would you rather I rot in my rooms until I’m utterly useless to anyone?”
“Cease with the dramatics,” said Godwin. “Have you not considered your own safety? If not that, have you not considered how thislooks? A Slödavan assassin infiltrated the Frost Citadel, managed to poison your food without obstruction, and evaded guards for hours before his capture. This wasn’t the work of a lone man. Someone let him in. Assisted him. Who’s to say it wasn’t your very own lapdog?” Godwin’s eyes were dark, his words bit out through clenched teeth.
“Mylapdogis the one who divested the assassin of his head,” Elma said, frustrated and defensive. As if her uncle truly believed she would be so oblivious, so silly as to blindly employ her own enemy without precautions. Without using her brain.
Yet some small part of her wondered if Godwin was right.Do you know what you’re doing, Elma?she thought.
Godwin’s expression only grew darker, sterner. “I suppose it hadn’t occurred to you that yourRunemight have turned on his co-conspirator when the poisoning didn’t work. He’s far more useful to Slödava at your side. You’ve let a wolf in among the sheep, and—”
“I am not a paddock ofsheep,” Elma snapped, lifting her chin. “You forget yourself, Uncle. I’m not your wayward niece, not anymore.”
Godwin’s brows drew together in frustration. At last, he sighed and drew a hand across his face. “Elma,” he said, his voice softer now. “At least until you wear the crown… be deadly cautious. This bodyguard of yours might save your life, or he might prove to be the very knife in your back. There is always more to a person than what one sees. To trust wholly is to embrace weakness.”
Elma swallowed. She could still feel Rune’s blade, cold against her throat. “Thank you, Godwin. I’m well aware.”
He knew a dismissal when he was given one. Bowing once, Godwin spun on his heel and left the courtyard. Elma watched him go, a yawning gulf opening between them. And as Rune made his way toward her, her protector returning, an indescribable loneliness opened up in her chest.
Nineteen
