Page 36

I cannot want him.

He wouldn’t want me if he knew my truths. Where I spent the last two years, what I’ve done, even here. What I still might do. How angry I am.

A rough knock rattles my door. Annais, perhaps, returning to assist me.

It isn’t Annais who stands at the precipice of my door, but Copelan.

His hair is soaked, his skin scrubbed clean, yet he has the gall to say nothing.

To stare, open-mouthed, like he did after that souls-forsaken performance.

Anger curls my palms and tightens my fists.

Has he come to tell me it was a mistake?

Has he come to make it my fault? “What,” I bite out, “could you possibly want?”

He lets out a breath, as if he has the right to be angry. But he did this to me. He smeared our line. “Well?” I hiss.

“I don’t know, Vas!” he explodes, stepping toward me. “This is wrong. It’s reckless, dangerous, but—” He brackets my face in his hands. “I can’t get you out of my head. I can’t wash you from my skin.”

My throat feels thick as I swallow his words.

I shake my head, because no—I can’t start this with him. I can’t afford the cost of it. Not with a chance that I’ll lose myself and my purpose between touches and silken sheets. “We can’t.”

He leans his forehead against mine, breathing me in.

I should push him off. But then his hands are once again in my hair, gliding down my aching back, whisper-light caresses like the press of satin.

He sets his lips over my eyes, my cheeks.

My jaw. “I don’t know what to do with you,” he says hoarsely, tugging on the ties of my dress.

He doesn’t feel the way I tremble. “You’re too much trouble and yet .

. . you, Vasalie, are my shackles. I can’t seem to set myself free. ”

Shackles.

Illian.

I shove him, nearly losing my balance. “Leave,” I croak. Illian could come looking for me. He might already be on his way, ready to punish me for Copelan’s actions, and if he found him in my room . . . “You must go. You can’t be here.”

“Vasalie,” Copelan says, stepping toward me, but I veer out of his reach.

“I—I can’t do this, can’t—”

“All right. Okay.” His face is red, flushed, and he’s looking at me like I slapped him. “I get it. I understand. It will not happen again.”

“You don’t understand,” I try, but his jaw is locked tight as he whips around.

“Copelan,” I breathe. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t hear me through the slam of my door.

An hour later, when I return to the Hall of Thrones, claps resound like the snapping of bones. At first, I don’t realize it’s for me, but then I see Copelan lingering in the center, a forced smile apparent on his lips. He extends an arm in my direction.

I can’t get you out of my head. I can’t wash you from my skin.

Dread twines through my already nauseated stomach. I shoulder through the crowd. Copelan’s indifference cracks as I take his hand, but he fixes it quickly, draping an arm over me. I feel like I could collapse. As usual, adrenaline is the only thing keeping me upright.

Praise soaks over us until we’re drenched from it.

Then the shouts begin.

“Are you courting? How long?”

“Kiss her again!”

“A love story in our midst!”

We’re just another spectacle, a form of entertainment. Copelan politely tells them we’re exhausted, but they grow rowdier, yipping around us like dogs begging for treats.

“Did you meet here?”

“Has he taken your virtue?”

“Give us a spin!” someone yells—a man in a crisp Kasami uniform with medals on his shoulder. Beside him, his partner, another handsome courtier, says, “Dip her!”

The room is a whorl of silk and sound. It’s all happening so fast I can’t think clearly, let alone respond. But the voices fade when I find King Illian skirting the edge of the crowd.

A dark velvet waistcoat hugs his chest, embroidered with red garnets along the hem.

Black opals shine from his rings. He looks like a villain from one of Emilia’s fairy tales: dark, sinister, yet surprisingly stoic, any trace of fury carefully veiled.

Beside him, Princess Aesir of Brisendale whispers in his ear, but he isn’t listening.

He’s watching me.

“Please,” I say over the furor. “Copelan and I are friends; it was merely part of the show. We’re thrilled you enjoyed it.”

A disappointed hum settles over the room, but only for a moment. People squeeze in, shoving more questions in our path as we try to escape: how we came up with the dance, what the powder is, who made our outfits. Copelan has the grace to steady me as I sway. “Let’s not overwhelm Miss Moran.”

Overwhelm is an understatement, when I’d sell my soul if only I could be left to sleep for a year straight.

We almost make it to the exit when Princess Aesir moseys into our path.

Tonight, her ivory locks are gathered to one side, and a red dress splits down to her navel like the cut of an unripened plum. “So then,” she muses, a delighted grin spreading her lips, “that means you’re free for the taking, no?”

Copelan and I both drop into a bow, after which he cuts me a cool glance. “Indeed, Your Highness.”

She twists an errant lock of hair between her fingers. “Perhaps, then, I might steal you away? I have a list of . . . requests I’d like to present you.”

I ignore the sultry dip in her tone, though my hands itch to pull Copelan away. Even if . . . even if I denied him and would deny him still.

It’s selfish. But he’s my comfort in this Fates-forsaken place.

It doesn’t matter, though, because she’s royalty and we are the sand beneath her feet. Neither of us can deny her anything.

“I’d be happy to oblige,” Copelan says, but I’m already walking away, pushing through hordes of glittering nobles, my neck damp, my lungs starved for air. I can’t seem to pull in a full breath.

The courtiers take notice of me. They grasp at my gown, my waist, my lower arms—a taste, a touch, whatever they can get in passing, bolder than those in Illian’s court when he wasn’t there to scare them off. Gossip trails my heels as I finally breach the exit, pilfering a glass of water as I go.

Out in the narrow hallway now, my legs turn leaden. I need to sit and rest. To collect myself, or collapse in peace, but my room feels miles away.

The last of my strength falters, my knees ready to fold. I grab for the first door I can find. Underneath, it’s dark, so I pray it’s empty. Turning the knob carefully, quietly, I slip inside.

Only it isn’t a room, but a library. Small, about the length of the dining hall, and twice as ornate.

Foiled leather tomes crammed together across mahogany shelves, the ceiling embellished in matching fretwork.

At the far end, a circular chaise basks in front of a large hearth that kindles a too-small flame.

And facing those flames is a straight-backed silhouette. In his hand is a silver glass, and he twirls the liquid inside slowly, his face shadowed by the peak of his cap.

I know that cap. The way it creases in the center, curving to a subtle point near the crown of the head.

Fear locks my muscles—and my lungs.

General Stova.

I need to run. To hide. But my feet are like stakes, planted in the ground. Unresponsive. He witnessed my performance. He saw everything.

He saw me.

But I remind myself, ardently, that he wouldn’t have recognized me. I’m not thirteen anymore.

Except I still feel as small. Smaller, even, than I used to.

Move, I beg myself. It isn’t time. I’m not ready.

But when he rolls his shoulders, his emblem catching the light, the past flashes before my eyes: a gown, pink as petals; blood, red as rubies.

A crack, a cry. Then the sound of Marian choking, the finger-shaped bruises now gracing her neck. My stomach turns to water.

I feel the cold of the glass in my hands. Break it, something inside me whispers. Break it; use it to slit his throat. He deserves to rot in a cell like I did, yes, but what if I could kill him now? He is alone, vulnerable. It might be my only chance.

A tremor wracks my body.

I try to move but can’t. He’s too quick, too armed, too strong, and I’m a fool to think I’ll ever be able to face him, a fool to assume I’ll find the courage I need. Never, whispers that dark, familiar voice in my mind.

Any notion of justice or revenge was but a na?ve girl’s plea.

A shadow crawls along the floor. Another silhouette, tall and slender. I sense the presence hovering behind me, a thing of nightmares. The Fate of Morta, ready to claim me. Because my father will turn around, and he will find me, and she is here, waiting.

He angles his face, firelight teasing his jaw.

The glass slips from my fingers.

A hand snakes out from beside me, catching it before it hits the floor.