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His eyes land on the knife I’m now clutching with both my hands, lingering on my bad one for a breath or two where the chain tattoo that marks me as a Fort Perenis prisoner sits exposed around my wrist, then continues to the tip of the blade where his blood is drying in the warmth of the candle glow. For a long while, he seems to be debating how to answer that. Eventually, he lifts his gaze back to mine, teeth buried in his lower lip again, and shakes his head. “It is not important.”
“Then why hand me a knife? Why have Royad play bodyguard? Why force me to stay in this room tonight if you aren’t planning on bedding me?” It might be a stupid question, one that might bring his attention back to something I am glad he has excluded from tonight’s events. Still, I have to ask, or I’ll explode.
“Because I trust Royad, and I don’t trust myself.” It’s all he says before he buries his nose in his book again.
His words hang in the air between us even when he has withdrawn from this conversation, and I can’t help but feel a chill crawl through my bones at the meaning of them.I don’t trust myself.
“How did the others die?” I ask instead of asking what I really want to know—ifhekilled them.
“You’re asking the wrong questions, Wolayna.” His gaze snaps up, deep and threatening, but instead of fear, something else stirs inside of me. I don’t know what he is trying to achieve, but he is pushing me to change course. Hewantsme to keep asking questions, yet he isn’t willing to respond in words that make sense.
“What’s the right question?” It is my turn to raise a brow and wait in silence as he is fighting for words.
I realize that’s exactly what he’s doing, mouth opening and closing as if none of those words want to leave his tongue.
“Who killed them?” I offer, but he shakes his head.
Still not the right one.
“What would you like me to ask?” I snap at him, my hands lifting the knife in front of me as if I could carve answers from him with a threat I know he isn’t even remotely responsive to. The dried blood on my blade from the cut on his chest proves it.
“Why?” He stares at me with those all-black eyes, and a shiver rolls up my spine.
“Whywhat?” The words fall out of me even when I try to hold onto the fear, the anger, the terror, the despair of the past months in prison, of these past hours of my wedding day.
The Crow King rakes his gaze over me, attention following the gooseflesh rising on my arms and shoulders. “That’s the question you should be asking: Why did they die?” Then he points at the bed, shrugging as if we weren’t just discussing the hows and whys of ninety-nine deaths, and with a swish, the night-blue covers fold back in silent invitation. “Now rest, Wolayna. I’ll wake you when it’s time to play the well-satisfied bride.”
This time, his words don’t allow for any response, not even for me to ask the question he told me to ask. So, I get to my feet and make my way to the bed, knife firmly in my grasp. It won’t be much use in case he decides to attack, but the warm silver between my sweaty palms gives me some modicum of safety.
I don’t bother to slip under the covers, as his magic suggested by folding them aside, but lie down on top of the luxurious silk, allowing my gaze to glide across the room.
This place is different from the rest of the palace where rough stone and unrefined structures define the halls. In here, a multitude of fabrics and textures mingle, making up the space inhabited by a creature of nightmares. When my eyes land on the Crow King once more, he has sunken back into his book, one feathered arm draped over the armrest of the couch and an ankle crossed over a knee. His hair falls into his face, hiding his eyes while the view on his stone jawline and full mouth remains clear. Something deep inside of me breaks at the sight of the beautiful monster to whom I’m now tied. I want to hate him with all my heart, want to scream and rage at him, want to tell him he is exactly what I expected him to be—the cruel, murderous creature the tales tell of winged fairies—but he’s not. I don’t know what he is, but as he sits there, motionless in the flickering candlelight, his words of how he doesn’t want me to die still hanging in the air even when it feels like a lifetime since he’s first spoken them, it is not as difficult as it should be to pretend I might survive the night after all.
And, as I lie there, curled on my side and counting my own heartbeats until the candle stump on the nightstand burns down and snuffs out, the tension of the day finally catches up with me. The warmth and quiet of the room envelop me, and with my knife pressed against my chest the way a child would clutch a toy, I become drowsy.
The occasional hisses of the flames and the dancing shadows paint stories on the walls that I can’t decipher as my entire body grows heavy despite my promise to myself to stay awake, stay alert so the Crow King can’t sneak up on me.
Thirteen
A knockon the door rips me from the momentary lull, kicking my heart back into a gallop and my breath into a ragged mess. I try to sit up, but a pair of hands pushes me back with surprising gentleness.
“Stay here,” the Crow King murmurs, gaze unreadable as he scans my face then straightens and turns to the door. “Refreshments have arrived.” He takes a step away from the bed then halts, glancing at me over his shoulder, those all-black eyes boring into mine. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but for both our sakes, it would be easiest if you pretend I just fucked you into oblivion.”
At the shock on my face, his lips twitch into a slight curve of amusement, and I’m grateful for the candlelight, or he might have noticed my blush at his choice of words. Not that Ludelle hadn’t done his fair share of doing just that, but I wasn’t prepared for those words from the male with the winged arms and impossibly handsome features who surprised me before by shedding a mask the moment the door was closed. Now, I’m not sure what I am looking at—the monster or something entirely else that I yet have to find a name for. But one thing I am certain of… My life depends on how well I convinced the Crows waiting in the hallway that their king had done just that. And I really, really want to live.
So, I push myself up, intending to give my new husband a mock-lascivious glance, but I find myself covered with a thin woolen blanket, and instead, I meet his gaze with bewilderment.
“You were shivering,” is all he gives as explanation, and I find myself struggling with hating him as he turns to the door and strolls over, the proud and unbothered king who will hurry for no one. Also, he is no longer wearing his vest, leaving a view on the cords of muscles along his back where his skin isn’t covered with feathers. I swallow at the sight of raw strength, at the warrior’s body that doesn’t need magic to smite his enemies yet has plenty of it at his disposal.
I shiver again as I realize that the creature I’m now tied to is even more dangerous than I initially thought. At least, he’s not out for my blood tonight.
He is almost at the door when I realize I am fully dressed and he may have covered me up to hide the fact he hasn’t even gotten to take my clothes off. That familiar fear springs to life as he lays his hand on the doorknob and turns, and I don’t think as I reach for the straps of my dress and rip them so they dangle off my shoulders. Then I ruffle my hair until it is all tangled strands before I slide up against the headboard, clutching the blanket to my chest so the dress is fully covered and all that’s visible are my bare arms and décolletage where the dress dips low enough to make it look like I’m naked underneath the blanket.
Eyes on the opening door, I school my expression into a bland smile and force my lids to lower like I have problems keeping my eyes open.
The moment the door opens, caws and hisses fill the air, and a tension runs through the room like a current in dangerous waters.
Three Crows and the Ceremonial stand on the threshold, cocking their heads to peer past King Myron’s broad shoulders.
