Page 99 of A Cursed Son

I don’t see why he thinks the idea is so ridiculous. “As friends.” Then I add, realizing my mistake. “But you don’t have to.”

“Mara,” he says. At least I’m using a fake name. “You’re a maid. Pretend you never spoke to me.”

His words pierce my skin like thousands of needles. My own voice is gone, lost along with my dignity.

At least he doesn’t notice my reaction. Instead, he turns and leaves. I don’t know why it hurts. I wasn’t hoping to marry him. I don’t think so, at least. I don’t know what I was hoping. It was nothing. I knew it was nothing.

It’s morning, and the Tirenzy prince summons me and Tarlia, who’s still pretending to be a flatulent Driziely. While the prince speaks to my friend, Rowe takes me aside. There’s no way to avoid him, to refuse his summons. Today he’s clean-shaved, well dressed, and doesn’t smell of alcohol. I can see why I was attracted to him.

He’s the one who starts speaking. “I want to apologize.”

I stare at the wall. “For what?”

“I was rude, Mara. I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I still can’t face him.

“Here.” He offers me a pouch. “For you.”

Perhaps by curiosity or some stupid hope that an apology can come in a pouch, I take it.

He smiles. “To compensate you. My appreciation for your services.”

I open it, and I guess I’m still too speechless to say anything, when I realize it has forty silver ducks in it. Not even enough to pay for a dress.

The foreign visitor is taking me for a whore—and a very cheap one.

I never tell anyone what happened, never confess my shame. It should have been obvious it was all he wanted. For a wine-filled moment, it was what I thought I wanted. But I never expected to see my worth in a pouch. You’re just a maid.

No, asshole, I’m an elite guard. But the words sound hollow, words that never leave my mouth. At least the coins are a great reminder of my foolishness.

Perhaps the pain is not about a stupid captain, or getting poorly paid for lousy sexual services. What hurts is the very real possibility that there’s no love for me in this life where I might have to pretend to be the princess, where I cannot be myself, where I can’t even correct an asshole who thinks I’m a maid.

“You’re brokenhearted,” the priestess says.

I fix my features quickly. “No. Just tired.”

She stares at me. “I might have something for you. Would you like to see?—”

I have to stop this. This is not happening. I have to stop this.

I push Marlak’s hand from over mine. His eyes are wide with shock.

My vision gets blurry and a loud buzz masks any sounds around me other than my blood pumping furiously in my veins.

How dare he take this memory from me? How dare he invade my thoughts?

Amidst the buzz in my head and the pounding in my chest, I can barely recognize the figure in front of me.

It’s Marlak, the disgraced prince who has stolen my most shameful memory, but it’s also Commander Rowe paying me forty ducks, Otavio claiming that if not for him, I would be dead, Andrezza distilling her hatred of my kind, Sayanne staring me down with judgmental eyes.

And then I see blood. Just blood. A strange memory that never made any sense, the only memory I have when I reach for any recollection of my parents. In a second everything turns to blood and then they’re no longer there. Blood, and I’m alone in the world.

In front of me is the prince who peered into my mind, the man who mocks my dreams about love, who tells me over and over how pathetic I am, as if I had to be reminded of that. He has his hands in front of him, perhaps aware of what’s coming.

I grab my dagger, and in one swift movement, I cut his palm. A tiny cut—but large enough.

Before he retreats, I pull his hand towards me for a taste. Just a taste. A taste of his life, his magic, his power. All that power he uses to make me cower. Magic flows indeed, and it can flow in one’s blood.