Page 10 of Grim and Oro (Lightlark)

MINE

“We hear ... the Covet gatherings have been delayed. Even with the added safety measures,” a council member says, voice nearly trembling with fear I can sense around him in a putrid cloud.

He flinches, as if expecting my shadows to wrap around his neck.

Good. Fear is a consistent motivator. I frown as I realize that was something my father told me.

I suppose I can’t fault him for being concerned. Not when another week has passed without another attempt at securing my heir.

I ignore him and move on with the meeting.

That same councilman has the nerve to follow me on my walk back to my quarters, through the obsidian halls, meaning I can’t simply portal as intended.

I really should kill him , I think. But my council is down to only eight members. I killed another one a few days ago, after finding out he was dealing a particularly addictive strain of nightbane.

The councilman breathlessly goes over updates from each of the villages and the warrior legions, as well as news on the state of farming and the number of my people who continue to be killed by our curse. When we reach my room, he finally brings up the topic again.

“Are the Covets not acceptable?” he says, following me inside, which should be enough to cinch his fate, if I wasn’t so damn tired . Too tired to kill, apparently.

“They’re fine,” I growl, not remembering any of them except for her.

“Because, if they were not, I could see about—”

“ They’re fine ,” I repeat, whirling around, shadows spreading across the walls.

He swallows. Fear swells. “Very well, ruler. I will—I will see myself out.”

He practically runs out of my room, and I sigh. This day has been just as worse as the last.

I just ... I just need to clear my head. I walk into my bathroom and remove my shirt. I turn on my bath, as if I could rinse all my problems and stress away, only to hear a scream.

A familiar scream.

No. I must have imagined it.

I tense for a moment, before storming to the edge of the tub, and peering inside.

It isn’t my imagination. It’s her. The Wildling witch.

Soaking wet in my bathtub.

Why is she in my bathtub?

I shake away the ache that shoots through me, and say, with a voice conveying my annoyance that just when I’ve begun to try to forget her, she shows up in my fucking tub , “Have you lost your mind?”

She’s stammering like an idiot and holding out a vial. She throws it to me, and I catch it. “It’s a healing ointment,” she says. “For—for that.” She’s motioning at my scar.

How to tell her that I would rather die than heal it. It’s a reminder—a reminder of her.

A reminder that she is a wicked, deceiving witch.

She’s stammering again. It ends with, “I came to offer peace. We don’t need to be enemies.”

I would laugh, if I had the energy.

Oh, how wrong she is. She is going to be my enemy for life, if only for making me undergo the excruciating affair of feeling something.

Even now ... even as exhausted and drained as I am, I feel these emotions uncurling, as if drawn to her, as if being brought back to life.

It’s disgusting.

She needs to never come back. She needs to learn she’s way out of her depth.

I drop the vial into my sink and watch her wince as it shatters.

Then, I say, “Get out.”

Fury radiates. Good. I’m glad I make her angry. I wait for her to leave, to just leave me the fuck alone , but she doesn’t.

Instead, she leans forward. Toward me. I hiss and step back, as if she is venomous.

She is venomous. She is ruinous.

I can’t look at her. Not without feeling myself slowly losing control. I turn to leave, and her voice stops me.

“What do you want, then?” she asks. “What can I give you?”

I tense.

For a moment, I wonder about all the things I now suddenly want , even though we, as rulers, are not supposed to want anything .

You can give me everything , I think, at the same time as, You can take everything .

I want her out of my head. I want her in my bed. I want every one of her thoughts. I want to never see her for as long as I live.

Instead, I say, “You are incapable of giving me anything of value.”

Except for my sanity back, maybe.

I feel her rush of anger, mixed with scalding shame.

I both pride and hate myself for being the root of it.

Then, she says something that shocks me. “Then let’s settle it with a duel. If I win, all ill will between us is forgotten. We can begin anew at the Centennial.”

That makes me turn around.

I almost laugh. Does she have any idea who she’s just propositioned? Does she have any idea how many people have died by my blade?

If she did, she would never invite it to meet hers.

Also ... she assumes I am going to the Centennial? When I never have before?

Does she even know that?

I received the invitation from the king not long ago. I promptly turned it to ashes. Why would I possibly attend a gathering of people who almost certainly want to kill me?

“Only a fool would believe they could best me in a duel,” I say, because it’s true. She doesn’t know Lark Crown, her ancestor, is still alive, buried beneath Nightshade. She thinks her death will kill everyone in her realm. Which makes her offer incredibly reckless.

Her desperation makes me curious.

Could her people be in as much danger as mine?

Clearly, she is attending the Centennial. Clearly, she believes I’m attending. She doesn’t want me to be her enemy there.

Interesting.

She glares back at me, though I can feel her confidence waver. Her chin is high as she says, “Wildlings are warriors, just like you.”

That makes me almost smile. “No, Hearteater,” I say. “Not just like me .”

In that moment, under her piercing glare, I remember I’m not wearing a shirt. I reach down to pick it up, then slip it back on, feeling her prickling embarrassment. It’s as if she hasn’t seen a man’s bare body before.

Has she not?

She’s locked in that room like a prisoner ... though she has my portaling device. For some reason, the idea of her using it for trysts makes a bitter taste spread through my mouth.

Enough . She’s taken enough of my time and sanity.

This might finally be my chance to be rid of her once and for all. “Fine,” I say. “When I win, you will never return here again. I’ve tired of you.”

I’m tired of thinking of you .

She slowly climbs out of the tub, her clothes soaking wet and fitted perfectly against her every curve. I have to remind myself to breathe.

I take her hand, intending to portal away, ignoring its softness.

“My swords are in my room,” she says.

We’re there in a moment. By now I’m more familiar with the journey than I should be.

She looks surprised, apparently unaware she’s been using my portaling power. “How—”

Sparks travel up my hand from hers, and I drop it as if I’ve been burned. I need to win this duel and be rid of her as soon as possible. “I have important matters to attend to,” I bite out.

She reaches for a sword. I wonder, for a moment, why she chooses that one. Is it her favorite?

Why do I care?

“Let’s go into the forest,” she suggests.

I walk through her glass wall and feel a wave of airy shock. Does she know nothing of our kind?

Of her own father?

I frown as I watch her dislodge a loose windowpane and climb through on her stomach. Her dress catches and rips on the side. Dirt is smeared on the front of it. She doesn’t seem to care, or notice.

I walk into the woods for a few seconds, watching to see if the nature tilts toward her—if it recognizes her—but nothing happens.

I was going to let this curiosity die. But now that I’m here, I might as well test my theory. I reach out, searching ...

And find something. Power. Hidden, deep within. Wildling power. Nightshade power.

I almost stumble forward with the discovery. So it’s all but confirmed. She is his daughter.

She is Nightshade.

She has no idea.

Why doesn’t she use her Wildling abilities? Does she not have a good teacher? Her guardians train her in swordplay. Why aren’t they helping her learn her powers?

I swallow, remembering a time when shadows didn’t lengthen when I passed. When they did not bow to me.

Enough . This is none of my business.

With a growl, I shove that memory away, and whip around with my sword.

A spike of surprise, and then her blade meets mine. She’s fast, I’ll give her that. But not faster than I am.

I advance quickly, eager for this to be over, to be rid of her, to be rid of any feelings at all . My life is so much easier without them.

She is a distraction. She is a liability.

Her blade does not falter. Thousands of men have died trying to block these very same movements, but she fights back with impressive strength.

Interesting.

It seems that without the mastery of her powers, she has thrown herself into training with metal.

Just like I did.

No. We are nothing alike. She is nothing .

My movements get rougher, and she stumbles back, farther into the forest.

“This is a duel, not a scenic stroll,” I say, feeling a wave of defiance from her.

She stands her ground, strengthening her position. I strike again and can feel her wave of pain as she blocks it. She doesn’t move.

Good girl , I think, despite myself.

Even though she’s holding her ground, her confidence wavers. She knows she can’t beat me. She knows she’s going to lose. Her vision glazes over, as if she’s lost in the maze of her mind, letting doubt eat at her.

I get a hit in, just a slight cut down her arm.

Look at me , I want to say. Face me .

Something shifts as she does. Her confidence spikes. Her mouth twitches. She must have a plan, but I can’t even be upset. A wave of pride—from both of us—fills me as she finds her way back to herself.

Still, I say, “You look far too confident for someone with such a lack of skill.”

The barb only feeds her determination. Good.

She matches each of my blows over and over, advancing, forcing me to back up for a moment. I narrow my eyes, trying to see what she’s doing. Trying to determine if I’m going to let her do it.

She curls around a tree and I lunge forward, suddenly desperate to end this duel, which right now seems more like a dance, like a conversation, like a joining.

And I feel my feet sink as the ground gives way beneath me, trapping me.

I look down and scowl at the pit of sand I’ve stumbled into. I try to move. I’m stuck. I manage to block her next advance.

Did she think this sand would stop me?

Yes. She did. Her wave of annoyance says it all.

Idiot.

I bare my teeth. “You know I could portal out of this, if I believed it would in any way impact my chances of winning.”

“I believe that would be considered cheating,” she says.

I give her an incredulous look, my own annoyance flaring. “And trapping me in this vile substance isn’t?”

Enough. I swing my sword around, and she meets it, her feet stopping just shy of the sand she’s lured me into. She’s at an advantage, being able to actually move her feet , but I have to admit her form is impressive.

Not impressive enough.

Irritated that she was naive enough to think she had any chance of beating me—that she hurled herself into my orbit like a damned asteroid—I reach through our blades, grab her by the front of her shirt, and fall backward, pulling her atop me.

My head hits the sand, but I don’t mind that it’s getting all over me. No, all I can focus on is her body inches above mine, with only my arm and my blade between us. All I can see are her green eyes, widened. All I can taste is her surprise. And something else ... something unexpected.

A pebble of want that is nothing compared to mine. It’s just a grain of sand compared to my own desire.

My blade is right against her heart.

But it feels like she is the one with a sword against mine.

It’s because of that that I say, “I don’t ever want to see you in my lands again.”

Then I portal away.

I don’t see her in my lands, but I see her in my dreams.

They are relentless. They are infuriating.

But the nightmares that used to plague me, the ones of waking up to see the winter palace painted in my siblings’ blood, the ones of the dreks finally breaking through once and for all ... those have stopped.

I wonder which is worse. Dreaming of battle—or dreaming of her, in my bathtub. Her clothes drenched and plastered to her every inch.

Ridiculous .

She has turned me into a fool.

She swore not to return to my lands, but I made no such promise to her.

Before I think of every reason why I shouldn’t be thinking of her at all, I’m in her room, just a week after seeing her last.

She isn’t sleeping.

No.

She’s dancing . Alone. She’s singing and twirling around her room, as if she’s pretending she’s somewhere else entirely.

And I’m not sure if she has the best voice I’ve heard or if I have simply lost it, but I’m entranced.

I watch her smile and twirl in circles, happiness radiating off her like a ray of sun, and ...

My fascination horrifies me.

But I can’t stop watching. Slowly, I find myself sinking down into a chair to study her radiance.

I know this is wrong. Me, invisible, watching her. Being this obsessed with every move she makes.

But no one has ever accused me of doing anything right.

So, I watch as she twirls around the room, singing a song, dancing, swishing her crimson dress around.

I’ve never paid much attention to dresses, but this one.

This one . I memorialize it in my mind. The neckline, curved down, revealing a sliver of skin.

The ties, in the back, loosely done. I imagine myself undoing them, slowly.

I think about how easy it would be to just rip that fabric, if she would let me. If she would—

She turns, briefly catching her reflection in the row of swords, and her smile drops. She gasps, and goes still.

As if she’s seen my reflection next to her own. Because she has. For a brief instant I was visible, both of us reflected together , like we never can be.

She whips around, but I’ve vanished. Invisible again.

I’m not breathing. What just happened has never happened before this moment.

My control slipped for a second. My normally ironclad shadows moved without me realizing it, puddling on the floor at my feet. Leaving me exposed.

I tighten them around me now, exercising a firm grip.

This is why she’s dangerous. She makes me lose control of my feelings, of my abilities, of myself .

I portal away, promising myself I won’t return again.