Page 97

“Then run.”

Her eyes narrowed as he spun on his heel and sprinted to the door. Wren screamed and bolted after him. He slipped though the doors and slammed them shut in her face. She pulled on them and slapped a hand against the wood. The blackguard had already locked her in.

“Let me out!”

“I can’t, my lady,” Shane’s muffled voice came from the other side of the door. “You will be safe here. The prince will come for you.”

She kicked the door in frustration and sank her fingers into her hair as she turned around and gazed at the room blankly. This wasn’t happening.

Get yourself together.

Wren shook off the panic, casting her gaze wildly around Arrik’s chambers in search of an escape. But she knew there was none. This was a prison of comforts that she was achingly familiar with.

One lone tear trekked down her cheek as she silently moved through the room to open wall that lead to the courtyard and bathing pool. Wren ran her fingers along the sheer white curtains and tipped her head back to stare at the sky.

“They all will regret this.”

Heart aching, Wren wiped the tear from her face.

Wren was done with being a pawn.

She’d tried to play nice. To keep her honor intact, but enough was enough.

Her only choice left was to become something thateveryonefeared.

A dull chuckle escaped Wren.

She’d become something unexpected.

A transformation.

The Dragon Princess would become a serpent.

And swallow Verlanti whole.

34

WREN

Two days passed before Wren was brought before her husband, the new king of Verlanti.

She was not at all surprised that he’d been crowned. Given the fact Soren’s death had not been a shock to him, Wren had no doubt that poisoning his father’s wine had been Arrik’s plan all along. He had not returned to his chambers even once in the last two days, leaving Wren to stew in her own rage and betrayal until they threatened to bubble out of her like the poison had frothed from Soren.

But Wren hadn’t been ignored, either. A servant had been assigned to bring her meals and clean her up.

Her hands flexed at her sides as she approached the throne room dressed in an emerald dress cut in a marginally demurer style than the typical fashions of Verlanti—not a see-through layer of gauze in sight. Wren had a sneaking suspicion this was Arrik’s way of appealing to her better nature.

An olive branch.

It wouldn’t save him from her wrath.

She had never been impressed by clothes though, so if he wanted her to be grateful that her dress was more comfortable than anything else she’d ever worn within the palace walls, he was sadly mistaken.

She heard her name announced to the throne room, and then she was allowed to make her entrance. Wren kept her black mask in place as she entered the grand airy room.

Arrik sat upon the throne, looking by all accounts a regal warrior king, resplendent in striking silver armor and a onyx cape that seemed to soak up the light around it.

It was the color of his rotten soul.