Page 172 of Gilded

“But he was a ghost,” she said. “He was already dead.”

“And now he has been released,” he said in a decidedly bored tone. He tucked the arrow back into its quiver. “His spirit is free to follow the candlelight into Verloren. And you call me a villain.”

Her lips were trembling—with shock. With disbelief. With utter confusion.

“Butwhy?”

“He was the only one who knew that I was not the father. Now there will be no one to question it.”

Her lashes fluttered, slow and hesitant. “Pardon?”

“You are right, Lady Serilda.” He started pacing before her. “I had not contemplated what this child might mean for me and my court. A newborn, blessed by Hulda. It is a gift not to be wasted. I am grateful you’ve opened my eyes to the possibilities.”

Her jaw worked, but no sounds came out.

The king neared her. He looked pleased, almost smug, as he took her in. Her strange eyes, her filthy peasant clothes. His attention lingered on her stomach, and Serilda wrapped her arms in front of herself. The movement made his lips twitch with amusement.

“You and I will be wed.”

She gaped at him. “What?”

“And when the child is born,” he went on, as if she’d said nothing, “it will belong to me. No one will doubt that it is mine. Its human father will not care to claim it, and you”—he lowered his voice into a clear threat—“will know better than to tell anyone the truth.”

Her eyes were wide, but unseeing. The world was a cyclone, all the walls and torches blurring into nothing.

“B-but I—I can’t,” she started. “I can’tmarryyou. I am nothing. A mortal, a human, a—”

“A peasant girl, a miller’s daughter …” The Erlking gave an exaggerated sigh. “I know what you are. Do not give yourself false pretenses. I have no interest in romance, if that’s what you fear. I will nottouchyou.” He said this as if the idea were beyond repulsive, but Serilda was too flummoxed to be offended. “There is no need. The child grows in you already. And when she returns, I—” He stopped, catching himself. His face shuttered and he glared at Serilda as if she’d been trying to trick him into giving up his secrets. “Eight months you say. The timing is most convenient. That is?…?ifwe have enough gold. No. It will have to be enough. I will not wait any longer.”

He moved around her, a vulture around his prey, but he was no longer studying her. His gaze had turned thoughtful and distant. “I cannot let you leave, of course. I will not risk you running away or spreading rumors that this child belongs to someone else. But to kill you would be to kill the child. That leaves me with few options.”

She shook her head, unable to believe what she was hearing. Unable to comprehend how the Erlking could have gone from intending to cut the child from her womb to intending to raise it as his own in so short a time.

But then she thought of what he had said, that little hint that had slipped through.

When she returns.

Approximately eight months until the baby would be born.

Eight months would take them nearly to the end of the year.

Nearly to … the winter solstice. The Endless Moon. When he intended to capture a god and make his wish. Was it true then? Did he mean to wish for Perchta, the huntress, to be returned from Verloren? Did he mean to use Serilda’s unborn child as agiftfor her, as one might bestow a bouquet of forget-me-nots or a basket of apple strudel?

She frowned. “But I thought the dark ones could not have children?”

“With each other, we cannot. The creation of a child requires the spark of life, and we are born of death. But with a mortal …” He shrugged. “It is rare. Mortals are beneath us, and few would abase themselves to lie with one.”

“Of course,” Serilda said, with a snarl that went ignored.

“The ceremony can take place on the summer solstice. That should be adequate time to prepare, though I hope you aren’t one of those brides who fancies elaborate festivities and ridiculous pomp.”

She gasped. “I have agreed to nothing! I have not agreed to be your prisoner, or to tell anyone that you are the father of this child!”

“Wife,” he snapped. His eyes brightened, as if this were a shared joke between them. “You will be my wife, Lady Serilda. Let us not tarnish the union with talk of imprisonment.”

“Whatever words you attach to it, I will be a prisoner, and we both know it.”

He approached her again, graceful as a snake, and took her hands into his. The touch almost affectionate, if it hadn’t been so very cold.