Page 64

Bria

M oss green eyes with an unwavering intensity stare back at me.

Nimai is dressed in a gown of emerald, her black hair flowing in waves around her shoulders.

Gone is the dungeon. Instead, she is seated on a bed that looks strikingly similar to the one I had fallen asleep in.

She smiles at me, though the smile doesn’t meet her fierce eyes.

Instead, I see the faint flicker of green flames within.

It’s barely perceptible, an inkling of the power she holds.

Nimai speaks, but her words are barely audible over the roaring in my ears.

“It isn’t safe here. Run.”

I wake with a start, opening my eyes to find my face still pressed to Evander’s chest. His arm is wound around my back, fingers hooked under one of the thin straps of the gown.

And my leg, I notice, is tossed over his waist. I had pressed myself tight against him during sleep and it had felt warm and comfortable. Safe.

The safety seems a bit ironic given where we are and the nightmare.

A part of me doesn’t want to rise and face my enemies in the light of day, but today, I’ll get to see her.

And no matter how jarring the dream or vision of Nimai had been, it'd left me with a glimmer of hope because it had been proof the connection between us is still there.

She is alive and she is well enough to reach out to me.

And just as Ev told me, she is no longer in the dungeons.

But there was a warning nonetheless and I will now be even more guarded, given her words.

The morning light bleeds through the small gaps in the heavy curtains, indicating it’s probably time for us to rise.

I slip out of Evander’s grasp, moving quietly to allow him the chance to rest. I make my way to the side of the bed and stand, creeping silently toward the washroom.

When I return to the bedchamber, my hair brushed, my face and teeth cleaned, I see Ev is sitting up.

Dragging his hands over his face, he pulls back the blankets and swings his legs over the bed, meeting my gaze. He smiles and it makes my heart skip.

“Morning,” he says, his voice thick with sleep.

“Morning,” I reply, watching as his eyes rake lower over the gown.

Gods. One look from him and I’m ready to jump back into the bed, something stirring between my legs when his gaze lingers, bringing along with it the harsh realization that I should get dressed.

The barely-there nightgown is doing neither of us any favors if he needs to meet with his father soon.

After all, they have the matter of drugging me to discuss. And I’m eager to see my sister.

I gesture toward the bathing chamber, toward my clothing. “I’ll grab my things and you can use it.”

“Bria.” I stop at the sound of his voice and turn, my hands bracing along the frame of the door.

“The armoire.” He tosses his head behind him, toward the giant wooden structure.

My mind had been on the pants and tunic lying on the floor by the bathtub, forgetting that I was in the castle. I would be expected to wear a gown, not the common clothing of the rebel camp. Had he not stopped me, I would have emerged with my armor and bandolier strapped in place too.

“Right,” I respond, a bit embarrassed, walking past him and the bed to the closet and swinging the doors wide.

In my time at the rebel camp, I had longed to wear a dress again.

Now, with numerous fine gowns hanging before me, I find myself at a loss.

It has been years since I sucked myself into a tight-fitting bodice, and I don’t know how to move like a warrior in one.

But then again, I’m not supposed to, not here.

Here, I am meant to blend in, to act like the noble-born I am. Well, was.

Evander’s footsteps are soft as he comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. He kisses the side of my neck before resting his head on my shoulder, looking over me at the gorgeous gowns. The weight of his head grounds me, helps me focus.

“I-I don’t know what to wear,” I admit, my hands still gripping the doors, white-knuckled.

“Go with the blue,” he offers, nodding toward a deep cornflower dress.

The gowns are full of silk and tulle, gossamer, and lace, unbelievably crafted with painstakingly delicate threading and detail.

I imagine they have an entire army of seamstresses creating the most elegant and fashionable gowns here in the capital, and possibly even more just working for the king and his court.

He bends his head back down and leaves a soft trail of kisses up my neck to my ear. I lean back into him, relishing the warmth of his embrace, the closeness of him.

“It brings out your eyes,” he whispers as he reaches my ear, sending a delightful shiver down my spine, still mostly bared to the air.

“Plus,” he adds, reaching his hand from around me to push aside the gowns. “Some of these are a bit scandalous. And though I definitely want to see you in some of the skimpier ones, no one else needs to. You should come off as wholesome if you’re planning to tell the priests how unworthy you are.”

He makes a good point, but I twist in his arms to throw him a scathing look, though the heat of his words sends torturous waves of desire through my body.

He stifles a laugh at my expression, leaning down to drag his nose over the bridge of mine.

When he hovers his lips above mine, I hold my breath, waiting for the feel of him when he kisses me.

“You should get dressed,” he whispers against my mouth before turning and striding toward the bathing chamber.

I glare as I watch him retreat behind the door before turning back to the dresses.

Gathering the cornflower one between my fingers, I gently remove it from the armoire, ecstatic to see that these gowns are more modern, bearing no corsets.

Some have sculpted bodices and others are lined with fine boning.

They would be far more comfortable and easier to move in.

All boast long flowing skirts that will hug tight to my body, not the fluffier skirts that make it difficult to maneuver through a doorway. These will do.