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Erida tried to picture it but could not. She brushed her fingers over his neck, where the thickest vein stood out. “What does Ronin think?”

“Ronin calls it a gift. The strength of What Waits flowing through me.”

“Does it feel like strength?” she murmured, flattening her palm to his throat.

His skin flamed beneath her own, burning as always. By now she knew this was not unusual. Taristan ran hotter than fever. The feel of him was enough to make her sweat, in more ways than one.

“What else can it be?” he answered, turning his head to face her.

The red sheen was there, barely a glimmer. But Erida perceived. And while she knew this, knew it was in him, she felt sick anyway.What Waits does not control him, but He is in his eyes, and in his head. In a different way than I will ever be.And then it was her turn to be jealous, not of a wizard, but of a demon king.

Slowly, she rose from the vast bed, putting her red-eyed husband to her back. Without her ladies, she dressed plainly, slipping into underclothes and a green gown without much difficulty. Her hair was more of a struggle, still tangled from sleep, and she fought it back into a single braid. All the while she stared, not at Taristan on the bed, but at the Spindleblade by the window. It gleamed with the red light of sunset, a mirror filled with fresh blood.

Taristan quickly followed suit, slipping into his own clothing. He despised the silks and velvets, pulling a face as he laced up his collar, hiding the last of his white veins from view.

“At least your Lady Harrsing will stop bothering us about an heir,” he muttered, stepping into his boots.

Erida couldn’t help but scoff. “On the contrary, her questions will increase threefold. She’ll probably inspect my sheets for my monthly courses, and track my appetite too,” she grumbled. Already, the Queen despaired of Bella’s meddling. “The court has started taking bets.”

He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “We war for the world, and your nobles have nothing better to do?”

“My nobles are not soldiers. They prefer banquets to the battlefield.” She threw a long vest over her body, golden fur brushing against her chin. “If betting on your seed and my belly is the distraction they need, so be it. Let them gossip while we grow stronger.”

Suddenly Taristan was at her back, wrapping one arm across her middle. He did so slowly, gingerly, careful as he was in all things. As if she might pull away at any moment.

“Soon you will not need them at all,” he growled in her ear.

She leaned into him, bracing her back against his solid form. Even through the fur, she could feel his heat. “I doubt even What Waits can do that, my prince.”

“My prince,” he echoed, testing the words.

“That’s what you are,” she murmured, putting her fingers to his arm. She circled his wrist. “Mine.”

His stubbled cheek brushed over her face, scratching her skin. “Does that make you mine?”

To that, Erida of Galland had no answer.Yeswelled up in her throat but could not pass her lips. It felt like a betrayal of herself, of her crown, of her father and every dream of her ancestors.I am the ruler of Galland, queen of two kingdoms, a conqueror. I belong to no one, only myself.Even Taristan was no exception, intoxicating as he was, powerful as he made her feel. There was no man she would chain herself for, not even the Prince of Old Cor.

At least that was what she told herself, staying silent.

Ronin’s cough made Erida jump in her skin.

She startled, twitching away from Taristan, her braid flying over one shoulder. Her heart rammed, and she glared at the wizard.

“You have incredible timing,” Erida snarled, sitting down at the window seat.

Taristan turned with cool indifference, but his usually pale face flushed red. He scowled at his priest, lips twisting with rare disdain.

“Ronin,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

The wizard barely glanced at him. He eyed the bloody basin, forgotten on the floor, and the Queen’s hands instead. She curled her fingers, feeling shame again. But it was too late to hide the evidence.

Ronin clucked his tongue, his rat smile returning. “Ah, that explains the mess in the throne room.”

“How long have you been standing there?” Erida seethed.

“Irrelevant,” he answered with a shrug.

In a swirl of crimson robes, he swept over to the windows, standing in silhouette to study the city and the bay. The odd light lined his body in gold, like a holy figure in a painting or tapestry.