Page 49

I forget who I am, who he is. I forget my chains or the man who holds them, standing feet away.

I forget how little I trust Anton; how all of this means nothing—especially to a king like him with a Glory Court at his fingertips.

His lips aren’t soft and neither are his kisses, but I don’t want soft.

I don’t want to feel fragile; no, I want this.

I want passion, hunger, the beat of a rapid pulse.

After he left me under that tree, after what he’d said, I hadn’t dared imagine what it might be like with him. But this —

“One of our newer girls,” says Mistress Sezar. “But the merchant paid well, drunk as he is, and I’d rather not lose a client. I won’t risk disturbing them any longer.”

Anton’s lips break from mine, sliding to my shoulder. He pants along the curve of my neck, damp and soft. His scent, his warmth— it clouds my head until there’s nothing else, not even the faint receding of footsteps.

I come to only when he cups my face, thumbs brushing the hair from my cheeks. I glance up at him, dizzy, and he presses a last, chaste kiss to my lips before whispering, “They’re gone.”

I can’t seem to move. It takes me a moment to remember myself and why we’re here. Anton slowly pushes off me, then holds out a hand. “My most sincere apologies, Miss Stova.”

Stova.

It’s the wakeup call I need, like a smack to the cheek. I run my hands over my face, then straighten my slip of a dress. Anton snatches my cloak from the floor and wraps it around my shoulders, but it does little good. I’m trembling, and not from the cold. What we just did . . .

Another wave of heat spirals beneath my skin.

Nothing has ever felt like that.

But I can’t focus on it. Can’t dwell on why that was even more invigorating than the most intimate dance.

That, of all things.

Him.

He kissed me like it was inevitable. I suppose we had been dancing around each other all this time, and yet we moved like it was a challenge.

I shake my head, trying to regain a bit of sense. I tell myself it was just the unexpected rush of it all. That’s what got to me.

Not the way it felt.

Because it wasn’t real.

It was not real.

He gets dressed, but not before I catch a glimpse of his physique—lean, muscled. Not that I needed to see it after I felt it on top of me. “We need to get going. In case brother dearest decides to come back,” he says.

I nod, using my still-shaking fingers to arrange my hair into a braid.

Anton, finally seeing me, smirks. Just a little, his lips tipped up at the edges. “I suppose we got what we came for, however unseemly,” he says. His hair is still mussed, tangled.

Unseemly. I don’t know what to make of that.

Words gather inside my mouth, but I don’t know which to spill first. I want to ask about what we just saw, what it means. What he plans to do about it.

I want to know how Illian and my father met.

I want to know if the grins, the smirks, are just Anton’s way to get me to do what he wants. If I’m being used by yet another Crown as a play for power. But if it brings me answers, or my own bit of power . . .

Mistress Sezar’s voice breaks our trance. “They’ve left,” she says, cracking open the door. “If you hurry, you can sneak out the back and reach the docks before they do.”

“I need to get back,” I say, “before he finds me missing.”

Anton frowns but grabs my hand, pulling me out the door.

Water laps over the edges of the boat as we row back to the island. Cool water pools around my ankles, but I hardly notice. I’m consumed by my thoughts. My anger. Now that I’ve had time to compose myself and process what happened, I’m steam in a kettle, ready to scream.

A king. Illian plans to help my father become a king.

No. I won’t watch it happen.

“I’d hope,” Anton says, breaking the silence, “that we are, at the very least, allies after that. Common enemies, and all.”

Allies? Is that what we are? I feel like I’m swimming in sand.

Allies. But it doesn’t matter what he calls it, because even if he’s using me, I will help him. Whatever it takes to knock my father to his knees.

“They deserve to burn,” I breathe, fingernails digging into my thighs.

I picture my father and what he did. I see Emilia’s face, already lifeless, right before he swung her over our balcony, let her tumble down the mountain below.

And Illian, what his guards did to me, the way he watched them break me, silently—and the way he’s watched me ever since he plucked me from his souls-forsaken prison.

The way his breath felt along the back of my neck when he spoke my last task . . .

“They deserve to burn,” I say again. “And I want to strike the match.”

“Good,” Anton says. “Then it’s time we talked.

Really talked.” He heaves the oars, pushing us over a larger wave.

Clouds thick as quilts drift over the moon, bathing us in shadow, the calm seascape now stirred by a current of wind.

“My brother is a powerful man, and he’s been playing this game for a very long time—perhaps longer than you realize.

Until now, he has failed in his endeavors—because every time, he made me his first target of disposal. ”

I don’t understand. “He . . . tried to dispose of you?”

Again, that devious tilt slants his lips. “Oh, you’ve heard the story. Everyone knows about my supposed death.”

Philam’s night bells chime as if in emphasis, ominous in the gloom. Mist sprays my tongue and coats my skin.

“Mount Carapet,” I say. “You—you fell.”

“Shoved,” he clarifies. “By my doting older brother, at the ripe age of sixteen.”

The story is true, then. Only, Illian was the cause.

Even so, whether Anton fell, or Illian pushed him, he is here. Alive. “How—”

“Did I survive? I woke on a jut of rocks along the mountainside. His men were searching for me, so I smeared my own blood along the rocks at the bottom near a waterfall, so they would assume he succeeded. A week later, I gave him a pleasant little scare at my own burial procession.” He sighs.

“But he had crafted such a convincing show, mourning in public for days after my so-called demise.

I realized that, should I try to expose him, I would have no proof to back my claim, and so I remained silent. Learned to watch my back.

“A year after, he sent a troupe of assassins to greet me when I returned from Razam. He wanted that war, and he was rather displeased that I had managed to prevent it.” He leans back, resting his elbows against the oars.

“Unfortunately for him and his little miscreants, I had an escort: the queen’s own sons.

Since, he’s tried and failed to kill me multiple times.

Deathnettle vipers in my bed, suspicious rockslides, and the like.

Alas,” he says, “this time is different. He hasn’t just changed his game. He’s brought in new players.”

Players, like my father.

Or perhaps the Fate of Morta herself.

“Because of my reputation, I have to tread very carefully around the Crowns. Already, they struggle to take me seriously. And I can’t make a move against him publicly without cause.”

“But you could warn King Rurik,” I point out.

“After our little poisoning incident?” He shakes his head. “If I were to tell Rurik that his beloved general plans to betray him, he’s likely to laugh in my face.”

“But the prophecy. Surely you could—”

“Even if I share the prophecy with them, they would have no reason to believe it. Not without proof, which is why I’ve sent a crew to retrieve the prophets my brother captured. Their testimony—well, it would be a start.”

“And if they’re dead?”

“A possibility,” he admits. “Which is the reason I’m here in search of tangible proof. I need to expose the general and my brother not for what a supposed prophecy says but for what they plan to do. I need concrete evidence.”

But that isn’t good enough. Time is slipping away. “What happens when you can’t find enough?” My palms grow damp. “I won’t watch this happen— won’t. ” I’d rather sneak into the tunnels and slit their throats myself than risk them rising to unthinkable power.

“I know where those thoughts are taking you, but you must resist,” he warns.

“There is no victory in that.” Then he leans forward, his jaw set.

“I have no intention of bowing before my brother or your Fates-damned father, Minnow. I asked you once before, and I am asking you again. Work with me. Help me stop them.”

My fingers tighten, curling into themselves. “What do you need me to do?”

He considers me. “Is my brother aware that you are the general’s daughter?”

“He isn’t,” I say. “He would use it against me if he found out.” Maybe even against my father, too. I have no doubt that should either of them have leverage over the other, they wouldn’t hesitate to wrangle that control.

Anton nods. “What else can you tell me about your history with Illian?”

“Other than his framing me for murder as an excuse for tossing me in prison until I begged for death?” I blow out a breath.

“Before that,” he clarifies.

A wave rocks the craft, and I grip the rough wood edges. The glass palace floats into view, dimly lit, studded with torchlight from within the arches like a multitude of stars.

I tell Anton what happened. I tell him about the day Illian found me, what he offered, how I worked for him and earned my place and title. The King’s Jewel.

“And he never took you? In . . . that way?”

“Not once. He has never touched me, not even a pat on the back. It’s why I trusted him.

He never took advantage of me, and he shielded me from the lustful eyes of the court.

He took care of me. He . . .” I take a breath, waiting for the lump in my throat to dissolve.

“He promised to always protect me. He lied.”

And that’s the reason I can’t hand my trust to the king before me, even if I help him. Words mean little, and promises even less.

We reach the post and he secures the boat with the rope, then he leans in, catching my gaze.

“Helping me is dangerous, and foolish, probably. But I don’t make offers I can’t keep, so listen carefully.

” He hops out of the craft and into the water, then holds out his hand.

“I cannot protect you, Vastianna Stova. But I can arm you.”