Page 46

And yet, someday, she would have to kill him.

The door creaked open once more.

‘I can undress myself, Klara,’ Mal said dismissively, without turning. But there was no reply. She spun towards the entrance, her breath catching when she saw him.

Ash stood by the door, silent as ever, watching her. His golden eyes traced the length of her dress, dark and unreadable. And then, as if realising what he was doing, he cleared his throat.

His wedding uniform still clung to him, the ceremonial layers stiff and formal, though he shifted uncomfortably in them. Mal’s attention landed on his hand—to the silver band circling his finger. He twisted it absently, as if unaccustomed to its weight.

With a sigh, he began stripping away the layers of his uniform, removing each piece with the same careful precision he gave to everything else.

His sword was the last to go, leaned reverently against the wall beside his boots.

Left in only a simple shirt and trousers, he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling as if the weight of the day pressed heavily upon him.

‘I…’ He hesitated, then cleared his throat again.

‘Do not touch my things.’ He gestured towards his discarded armour and weapon before she could even open her mouth to tell him she had no intention of doing so.

‘Maids will be less suspicious if they…’ Another pause, as though the words were difficult to shape. ‘If they see my things here.’

Mal narrowed her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

He looked at her then, truly looked at her, the words poised on his tongue but somehow refusing to fall.

And then —

‘Goodnight, Princess.’

Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the adjoining room.

Mal waited, unmoving. Would he return? Would he slip into the bed beside her while she slept? The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit. She exhaled sharply, pushing aside the uncertainty. If he was going to leave, then he should at least say so.

Resolute, she strode towards the study and pushed the door open—

Only for the words to wither on her lips.

The room was bathed in quiet candlelight, filled with the rich scent of parchment and ink. And there, curled into an armchair shaped like a nest, lay Ash, fast asleep.

Mal stilled.

The chair was familiar in its design. Her people had them, too—rounded and deep, reminiscent of the great nests wyverns used. She had spent many nights in one herself, preferring their cradle-like embrace to a mattress.

He looked… younger like this, stripped of his rigid formality. He barely made a sound as he slept, his breath slow and even.

It would be so easy.

He would not hear her approach, would not stir as she leaned over him, a dagger slipping between his ribs before he could wake. His heart, warm and beating, would still beneath her hands, and the prophecy would be fulfilled.

Mal reached for the blanket draped over the back of the chair. Silly drakonian prince. Sleeping in here will not keep you safe from me.

And yet, despite the thought, despite the knowledge that one day she would have to kill him—

She still covered him with the blanket before slipping back into her own room.

…

Ash jolted awake, breath sharp, heart pounding. Shadows of a dream clung to him—black hair like ink spilling over his skin, nails dragging across his flesh, laughter curling around him like smoke, dark and aching. His chest tightened as the remnants of it faded, leaving only a hollow weight behind.

Blinking, he took in his surroundings. The study. He had come here last night, leaving the bedroom to his wife . No matter how much temptation whispered at the edges of his thoughts, no matter how much some part of him longed to claim his place beside her, he would not.

His wife.

The title still felt foreign, unreal.

Ash exhaled sharply, shaking the last threads of sleep from his mind. He was married. To a wyverian princess. Had she liked the room? Had she found comfort in the gift he had painstakingly prepared for her? Or had he overstepped, forcing familiarity where it was not welcome?

He rose to his feet, and as he did, something slid from his shoulders—a blanket.

Frowning, he stared down at it. He had not covered himself last night.

He had left himself open to the cool night air, hoping it would ease the restless energy simmering beneath his skin.

But it had not been enough. She had been just beyond the door, and that alone had been enough to force him into a restless sleep.

Mal Blackburn was perched on the balcony’s breakfast table, legs tucked beneath her, bathed in the early morning light. A grape hovered between her lips, her movements frozen as she took him in.

Ash stilled as well, his eyes darting between her and the trays of food spread across the dark wooden table.

His jaw tensed. If the maids had entered earlier and seen her bed untouched…

would they assume? Would they whisper? It was an oath marriage, surely everyone would understand, and yet…

servants had a way of letting their murmurs drift into the wrong ears.

Mal bit down on the grape, unbothered, the juice trailing lazily down her chin.

‘Klara brought it,’ she said, watching him closely. ‘She won’t tell anyone we did not sleep in the same bed, husband. We wouldn’t want them thinking we’ve started off on the wrong foot.’

Husband.

She was teasing him.

Suppressing a sigh, Ash stepped forward and settled at the opposite end of the table, keeping space between them. She continued eating, her gaze drifting to the sea below, unconcerned.

He reached for a piece of fruit—

A pale, claw-tipped hand smacked his own away.

Ash’s golden eyes narrowed, a low growl building in his throat. What was wrong with her?

‘Rotten,’ she mumbled, her mouth full.

He nearly recoiled when he finally took in the state of the table. Plates upon plates of rotting food covered the surface—fruit swollen and blackened, meat nearly dissolving into itself. His stomach twisted in revulsion.

Mal chewed, unbothered. The realisation struck him like a blade. He had never actually seen a wyverian eat. During festivities, they politely refused drakonian food, disappearing to dine elsewhere. Now, he understood why. Mal waved a dismissive hand.

‘Klara will bring you food,’ she said. ‘She went to fetch it. Has anyone told you that you are very grumpy in the morning?’

His jaw clenched.

‘Keep clenching your jaw like that and you might just cut through the table.’ She smiled then—sharp, knowing. A dangerous little thing that flashed her fangs, taunting him. ‘It would be a shame if you did,’ she continued lightly. ‘My husband put in a lot of effort into making this space for me.’

Ash exhaled harshly and turned his attention to the sea.

He could hear her smile widen.

‘Did you sleep well?’

He nodded.

‘Will you be sleeping every single night in the study?’ she asked. ‘I’d rather know, so I can organise Klara a little better when it comes to breakfast. Wouldn’t want you to get any grumpier than usual.’

‘Not grumpy.’

Her laugh was soft, lilting, and it made him glance over despite himself.

‘So you can speak in the mornings?’ She leaned forward, amusement dancing in her expression. ‘I thought perhaps someone had cast a spell over you that only allowed you to speak one-word sentences after midday.’

‘Not funny.’

She leaned back, utterly at ease, that wicked smile growing. ‘Why do you speak like that? I’ve seen you string sentences together in your sister’s ear.’

Ash stiffened. ‘Annoying.’

He pushed himself up, preparing to leave.

A part of him wanted to explain. He wanted her to understand —the reason why his words came carefully measured, why they were so clipped, why each sentence was a battle he had to win before it could leave his lips.

But what if he told her… and she laughed?

What if she looked at him differently? What if she stared at him in disgust? He could not endure such a thing.

So he turned away, silent.

And she did not call him back.