Page 11 of Of Rime and Ruin (Sirens of Adria #2)

Chapter nine

Aethan

I crank the heat in my shower. Water hisses from the spout, burning my skin. My fingers slip through tangled hair, and I ball my hands into fists, gripping the strands. Pulling hard.

But the pain isn’t enough.

My memory is gone.

Last thing I knew, I was in my chamber. Peering into the sight-pool as I looked for signs of another clawbeast.

There was a female. Wasn’t there? A female in the Rime? I saw her in the pool. And then I… Then what? What have I done?

I pound the wall with the meat of my fist.

I need to get my anger under control. Two nights in a row? That’s two too many. Whatever I’ve done can’t be undone. Soon enough, we’ll find her body on the shore.

Rivulets stream down my back. I press my forehead to the stone tile and let the water pelt my body.

A pounding, roaring torrent. Indifference is the best remedy, the only thing between me and the spiraling cliff of despair.

I must not cross that line. My memory is gone, but there’s no retrieving it.

Whatever happened, happened. The icy knot of anger in my stomach unfurls, dissipating with the steam. My muscles relax.

I could select a steward to hold the throne in my stead. Someone wise but unaffected by the swell of power. Someone kind. Someone who can give my people the care and attention they need.

They could return to the sea. Without me, they’d be safe.

No more king? No more clawbeast.

Jealousy claws my throat as I pound the wall again. Then again. The sound reverberates through the bathroom.

I pause mid-punch. A rapping sound at my chamber door. Three quick knocks.

Water hisses in my face, sticking in my lashes.

“Sire? I don’t mean to intrude. But it’s urgent.”

Fuck. I can’t say no to Deirdre.

I stop the water and squeeze out my hair, then wrap a towel around my hips.

“One moment!” I shout at the door, padding out into the main bedroom. My wardrobe is a simple armoire. Dark wood, harsh lines. Two doors open to five sets of the same clothing: loose cotton shirts, goatskin pants, white fur cloaks. I grab one of each and slip them on. “Enter.”

The door opens, and she bustles in. Her hands twist in front of her stomach, winding together, then apart. Her eyebrows pucker in concern.

“Speak, Deirdre. You’re going to kill me with that face. What happened?”

“This morning, two younglings went swimming and found a…”

My stomach flips. “A what ?”

“There’s a—” She pauses. Twists her fingers. Starts again. “I think you might have—”

I pull out my desk chair and sink into it to brace for the news. A dead body. That’s what she’ll say next, I’m sure of it. And, goddess above , a pair of rebellious younglings found it. “Go on.”

She draws a deep breath. “There’s a female in your dungeon, Sire.”

“Dead?” Those poor younglings. This is why I have rules—to keep them from tumbling into trauma like this.

“No, Sire.”

I frown, moving to activate the sight-pool. “How?”

“I believe you put her there. The other you.”

My fingers dip into the pool, and the water glows. I guide the vision into the water. The dungeons are beneath the ice, part of the abandoned city of Doloch. A system of tunnels with several caged cells unused for years.

I lean onto my desk, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Is she one of ours?”

The hands twisting again. Then, “She’s Brine.”

I alter my tune, focusing my search on the dungeons. The image ripples and shifts, revealing the tunnels as I seek an occupied cell.

What did I do? My memory is muddy. I only have pieces: anger. Swimming. Chasing something. Someone. Chasing her. A palmwood tree, warmed by the sun. The fuck?

The water stills, framing an image in the icy haze. There she is. A female with a golden tail, curly hair, and warm brown skin, tucked into a ball in my dungeon. I’ve seen those scales before. Right here in my sight-pool.

I clutch my pec, brushing a thumb over my sore nipple, and my rage flares.

Intruder. Spy.

She penetrated my domain. I remember what drove me to transform. Why I hunted her. She’s dangerous. Unwelcome.

And very much alive.

“Bring her to me,” I growl.

***

I grip the arms of my polished darkwood throne.

The room has none of the glacial grandeur of my ancestral hall beneath the waves, but it’s impressive in other ways.

Imported darkwood beams hold the ceiling high, creating an echo chamber.

Thick fur hangs from the walls to keep the cold at bay.

I’ve added my touch—a crystal chandelier suspends from the ceiling, each delicate piece formed with magic.

My guards stand at the door, tridents held at the ready. Torches are posted on either side of me, providing the only light in the room.

Before me kneels the siren, bound in ice.

I’ve trapped her ankles, cuffed her hands.

The frost isn’t cold enough to harm her skin, just to hold her until I get the information I need.

She wears a servant’s cloak, her full breasts pressing against the constraints of the rough fabric. Are those starfish underneath?

The female, on her knees, bends her neck to glare at me.

Bold.

I study her face. Features full, smoothed by magic—round ears and soft jaw. A constellation of golden freckles decorates her cheeks, the same color as her tail. Long, thick eyelashes. Her gaze hardens under my scrutiny.

She’s beautiful. But it’s not enough to soften my resolve. If she wanted a warmer welcome, she shouldn’t have come here. I don’t play games, and I don’t take kindly to visitors.

Visitors are a liability.

“I’m not known for my compassion, siren spy. Don’t expect to be here much longer.” My voice rumbles through the room. Her eyes widen at the sound.

“I’m not a spy, I’m a—”

“Death-dealer then? You’re doing a shit job of it. Go on.” I lean forward, tilting my head to the side to expose my neck. With a low, rumbling hum of magic, I melt the ice from her hands to give her an opening. “Here’s your shot.”

The guards shift, angling their tridents.

She appraises my neck. Her gaze traces the angle, the slope of my muscles, and her jaw flexes. Is she plotting her aim? I lean closer, stretching. If she’s here to kill me, she might as well get it over with.

“Well?”

Her lip quivers, but she says nothing. Pathetic.

How much encouragement does she need? I stand from my seat and stalk forward. My furs drag along the wooden floor. She’s small. Looming over her, I easily double her height. Did she honestly think she could best me? How cute.

She recoils, a gasp escaping her.

I squat before her and angle my neck once more. When she makes no move, I seize her wrist and place her hand on my neck. Her fingers are cold. Smooth. Her breath spills over me, sweet as vanilla. Up close, her brown eyes are speckled with green.

But she does not kill me. Doesn’t even try.

Pity, that.

I release her hand, and it drops to her lap with a dull sound of surrender. My Voice rumbles, and ice reforms around her wrist, binding her once more. I straighten, standing before her as she stares at my feet.

“Thought not. Tell me, siren, who sent you?”

“I sent myself.”

“To ruin me?” I place a knuckle beneath her chin, forcing her to look at me while she answers. Beneath my touch, her throat is soft.

“No, Your Majesty. I was playing with a pod of glosswhales and I followed them. Your guard-beast scented me, I assume, and attacked. I didn’t realize I was in your waters until I was locked in that cage.”

Her tone is sweet. Too sweet. Her pupils dilate, and I stiffen. She’s lying.

More pieces of my memory fall out of the shroud: glosswhales. The scent of a female. A flash of light. Golden scales.

I glance over her body, checking for wounds. No dried blood. No gashes. Relief washes over me, and I swallow the lump in my throat. What would I have done if this body washed onto my shore, instead of my dungeon?

My imagination plays the image of this female’s body, shredded by my claws. Her hair dripping with blood. Her corpse, stiff with frost.

Nausea rises. I step away from her, sinking into the furs of my throne. My hands find the armrests, and I clench them.

I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone. Not even an outsider.

What am I going to do with her? She can’t go back to the Brine, not now, never. She’s seen too much already.

And if she is a spy…

“Playing with glosswhales, you say?” What an odd excuse for a spy. If she is one, she’s in a league of expertise I’ve never encountered.

Or she’s stupid.

“That’s right.” She jerks her chin in defiance. I can’t help the smile that twitches at the corner of my lips.

“And you expect me to believe that?”

Her answering smile is coy. “That’s right,” she repeats.

“You realize your fate lies in my hands, little spy. Don’t play me for a fool.”

“It’s hard to imagine His Majesty knows the meaning of play.”

Somewhere, a guard snickers. I shoot him a look, and he stiffens at his post.

She’s feisty. I like that. But I need an answer, not a game. With a snap of my Voice, I tighten her bonds, and she groans, twisting against the strength of my magic. I pull the ice across the floor, forcing her hands forward. She bows to me, still glaring, helpless to do anything but.

I wince as her soft lip trembles. Fear?

Good. She should fear me. Her delicate whims will not protect her against the danger I harbor inside.

Even if all I want to do in that moment is lean forward, suck that lip into submission, and calm it with my tongue.

I raise my hand and give the order. “Take the spy back to her cell.”