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“Actually, the bacon is—” Kieran began, and I did kick his leg under the table this time. His head jerked in my direction.

“We can share.” Emil snapped the bacon in two and handed half over to a less-than-grateful Vonetta. “And I’m here because I missed you that much.”

“Whatever,” Vonetta muttered. “Seriously, why are you here?”

Emil grinned, his amber eyes warm as he finished off his half of the slice. “I’m here because someone delivered a missive to the Rise,” he announced, wiping his hands on a napkin. “It’s from the Duke and Duchess Ravarel.”

Every part of me tensed. “And you’re just now sharing this?”

“You had questions about their time in Oak Ambler. Figured I’d let them get answered,” he reasoned. “Plus, Vonetta was hungry, and I know better than to get between a wolven and food.”

Vonetta whipped toward Emil, nearly coming out of her chair. “Are you seriously blaming your inability to prioritize on me?”

“I would never do such a thing.” Emil pulled a slip of folded parchment from the breast pocket of his tunic as he grinned at Vonetta. “And none of that changes the fact that I did miss you.”

Kieran rolled his eyes.

Vonetta opened her mouth and then closed it, sitting back in her chair, and I did what I probably shouldn’t. I opened my senses. What I tasted from Vonetta was spicy and smoky. Attraction. There was also something sweeter underneath.

“I need wine.” She started to lean forward, but Emil was, once again, quicker. As he handed the missive to me, he snagged the bottle of wine and poured her a drink. “Thank you,” she said, taking the glass and swallowing an impressive mouthful. She looked at me. “So, what does it say?”

The thin slip of folded parchment felt as if it weighed as much as a sword. I glanced at Kieran, and when he nodded, I opened it. One sentence was written in red ink—a response we all expected but that still came as a blow.

We agree to nothing.

Chapter 4

“Run, Poppy,” Momma wheezed. “Run.”

She wanted me to leave her, but I couldn’t. I ran. I ran toward her, tears spilling down my cheeks.

“Momma—” Claws caught my hair, scratched my skin, burning me like the time I’d reached for the hot kettle. I screamed, straining for Momma, but I couldn’t see her in the mass of monsters.

They were everywhere, skin dull and gray and broken. And then there was the tall man in black. The one with no face. I twisted, screaming—

Papa’s friend stood in the doorway. I reached for him. He was supposed to help us—help Momma. But he stared at the man in black as he rose above the twisting, feeding creatures. Papa’s friend jerked, stumbling back, his bitter horror filling my mouth, choking me. He backed away, shaking his head and trembling. He was leaving us—

Teeth sank into my skin. Fiery pain ripped through my arm and lit across my face. I fell, trying to shake them off. Red streamed into my eyes. “No. No. No,” I screamed, thrashing. “Momma! Papa!”

Fire sliced through my stomach, seizing my lungs and my body.

Then the monsters were falling, and I couldn’t breathe. The pain. The weight. I wanted my momma. Nothingness slipped over my eyes, and I was lost for a little bit.

A hand touched my cheek, my neck. I blinked through blood and tears.

The Dark One stood above me, his face nothing but shadows beneath the hooded cloak. It wasn’t his hand at my throat but something cold and sharp.

He didn’t move. That hand trembled. He shook as he spoke, but his words faded in and out.

I heard Momma say in a voice that sounded strange and wet, “Do you understand what that means? Please. She must…”

“Good gods,” the man rasped, and then I was floating and drifting, surrounded by the scent of the flowers the Queen liked to have in her bedchambers.

What a powerful little flower you are.

What a powerful poppy.

Pick it and watch it bleed.

Not so—

I jerked awake, my eyes open wide as I scanned the moonlit chamber. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t in the inn. I was here.

My heart was slow to calm. I hadn’t had such a nightmare in a few nights. Others had found me—ones where pointed nails painted the color of blood dug into his skin—hurting him.

My closest friend and lover.

My husband and King.

My heartmate.

Those nightmares had joined the old ones, finding me if I managed more than a few hours of sleep—which wasn’t often. I averaged maybe three hours a night.

Throat dry, I stared up at the ceiling, careful not to disturb the thick blankets piled on top of the wide bedroll. It was silent.

I hated these moments.

The quiet.

The nothingness of night.

The waiting when nothing could occupy my thoughts enough to prevent me from thinking his name—let alone what could be happening to him. From hearing him beg and plead, offering anything, even his kingdom, to her.