Page 44 of Song of the Heart Scale (The Dragon’s Ballad #3)
He didn’t answer. He had never appreciated my humor. Which, honestly, was half the fun.
A chair was pulled back for me and I sat without thanking the servant. Small mercies. I had to conserve all my gratitude for not strangling Thorne with my napkin.
“You must be hungry,” he said, slicing into a succulent piece of lamb with the care of a surgeon.
I watched the juice seep out like blood. “Starving. Being tortured really works up an appetite.”
His knife stilled. “We did what was necessary. Order had to be restored.”
I raised an eyebrow. “By beating the citizens of Elaria half to death?”
“By punishing rebellion.”
I let his sentence hang in the air.
He smiled faintly. “You always did have a bleeding heart.”
Actually, if he knew the real Arya, he’d know she didn’t even have a damn heart.
I shrugged one silk-clad shoulder. “You know what they say… empathy's the new black.”
Thorne poured wine into a goblet and slid it across the table. I didn’t touch it, due to the fact that me and alcohol didn’t mix well.
We ate in near silence, the tension between us sharp as broken glass. Then, halfway through the meal, he asked it.
“Do you know what your people call you now?”
I raised a brow.
“The Dragon's Whore.”
I blinked slowly. “That’s catchy. Do they put that on flags now, or is it just for the posters?”
Thorne’s jaw twitched. “They sing about you. Did you know that? About the mark on your arm and your so-called fate.”
“Better a song than a dirge.”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Arya. You think you can sway the people with ballads and gossip.”
I snorted. “You’re doing a great job swaying them toward rebellion all on your own.”
Thorne slammed his goblet down.
And that was when the doors opened.
Maeve entered, carrying a tray of fruit in her hands. She was pale but composed. Professional. I gave her a quick glance, a nod. We’d planned that she’d come to escort me out of the dining hall so I didn’t have to stay for long.
Thorne slowly turned his head. “I didn’t summon you.”
Maeve dipped into a deep curtsy. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I thought perhaps Lady Arya would like something light to finish her meal.”
“What Lady Arya likes is no concern of yours.”
My muscles tensed. “Thorne.”
He ignored me, then rose from his chair. “You forget your place, servant .”
Maeve bowed again, trembling. “I-I apologize.”
Thorne took the tray from her, then without warning, hurled it across the room. Fruit splattered against the marble like colorful blood. “You serve at my pleasure!” he hissed.
“Leave her alone!” I barked, rising unsteadily to my feet.
But it was too late.
He moved faster than I could track. One moment Maeve was backing away, and the next, Thorne’s clawed hand lashed out and grabbed her by the throat. I paled instantly with the realization of how sideways our plan had turned.
Her eyes bulged in shock as he effortlessly lifted her off the marble floor.
“Thorne, stop!” I screamed, running to them.
Maeve gasped and scrabbled her hands at his wrist, legs kicking.
He snarled, his eyes glowing with that telltale dragon-fire, and then—he squeezed.
There was a sickening crack.
He dropped her.
Maeve crumpled in a heap, her body too still, her neck twisted at an angle no living thing could survive.
Silence reigned.
I stood frozen. The breath had left my lungs.
Then it hit me.
“NO!” I dove to her side and gathered her limp form into my arms, my scream echoing off the high-vaulted ceiling. “Maeve! God, no...”
Her eyes stared blankly. Empty.
She was gone.
I pressed my forehead to hers and sobbed. “Why? Why? Why ?”
Thorne watched with cold indifference. “She was just a servant, Arya. I can get you a hundred more. Honestly, she should have been punished days ago. She’s the reason you were tortured in the first place.”
I raised my face, tears blazing hot trails down my cheeks. My voice was steel. “You bastard,” I whispered, my voice filled with deathly calm. “I will kill you.”
Thorne snorted as he wiped his hands on a napkin as if touching Maeve had soiled them.
My teeth chattered and my bottom lip quivered. As I held Maeve in my arms, the guilt of putting her in this situation ate me up inside. This was my fault. All of it. I killed her.
I was powerless to stop the tears that flowed down my cheeks in an unceasing trickle. “I will end you even if I have to die in the process!” I seethed.
“She’s just a bloody servant!” he shouted.
I shot to my feet, dropping Maeve and charging toward him. “And you’re a piece of shit!” I went to strike but he caught my wrist. “You want war? You just got one,” I growled.
Thorne stood silent, his expression unreadable.
I screamed.
Not out of fear.
Out of rage .
Guards flooded into the room at the sound, but I was long past caring. I dropped to the floor and cradled Maeve against me as tears streaked down my face, my throat raw from screaming.
This was it.
No more hiding.
No more games.
Thorne just signed his death warrant.
And I would be the one to deliver it.