Page 42 of The Jasad Crown (The Scorched Throne #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

MAREK

C overed in soot and the remains of a shredded zulal, Marek had gained a newfound respect for Sylvia.

Even with hundreds of soldiers at his side, battling the creatures infesting Galim’s Bend had taken every last ounce of his strength.

The fact that Sylvia had fought her way through Dar al Mansi alone, carrying nothing more than an axe and a knife?

Oh, and Al Anqa’a hadn’t been conveniently incapacitated for her, either.

Thank the Awaleen he and that girl were on the same side.

The wagon hit a bump, jostling the group of them shoved in the back. Marek groaned when his bruised arm hit the side of the wagon. Galim’s Bend had wrecked him. Holes riddled his boots, the leather eaten through by the nisnas’s corrosive blood. His hair dripped with a variety of eviscerated organs.

It shouldn’t be long until he fell into a hot bath and a warm bed.

The upper towns had opened their homes to some of the recruits while the recovery at Galim’s Bend continued.

Several of the more experienced recruits had been annoyed to learn Marek was assigned to the same block of nobles’ houses as them.

“Who sent you to this neighborhood after you’ve only muddied your boots once?

Your mother must have left a feather by the bridge for you,” Zane had grumbled, clapping him a little too hard on the shoulder.

The reference was lost on Marek, though not the general sentiment.

The road smoothed beneath them. Conversation ceased as the moonlight disappeared behind houses grander than Marek had seen in a long time.

Verdant gardens grew beside immaculate entryways, each step behind their wrought-iron gates glittering with incandescent glass tiles.

Lanterns flush with oil burned over soaring stone walls, illuminating the gilded nameplates at the front of each gate that declared the household’s name, many of which Marek recognized as well-known dignitaries of the Citadel.

The soldiers dropped off one by one. Marek remained in the wagon as they passed decadent estates eating up the same amount of acreage as a sizable Omalian village.

As uncomfortable as he found such ostentatious displays of wealth after the massacre in the kingdom’s poorest village, a small part of Marek…

relaxed. For a very long time, this had been his world.

Though he would happily spend the rest of his life in a tent with Sefa rather than a single hour in his former home, he sometimes missed those days of luxury.

Until he remembered the cost.

Those names carved onto each gate? The Lazurs had one, too. They’d varnished theirs with the blood of Marek’s siblings. Amira, Hani, Binyar, Darin. The gravedigger’s shovel never had a chance to leave the ground before the next Lazur body arrived.

How tragic for his parents that their spoiled, spineless, vain son was the only one left to survive them.

They shouldn’t have been so hasty to turn their other children into heroes.

Maybe they would have noticed that their youngest had been born with a deficit of bravery.

If it came down to dying a hero or living a coward, Marek would do whatever it took to keep himself aboveground.

The wagon juddered to a halt. “Out,” called the driver.

Marek shook himself out of his reverie. The house the driver stopped in front of couldn’t be the right one. It was the last in the neighborhood and the most magnificent by far.

“Out!” A canvas bag hit his chest.

“Easy!” Marek clutched the bag carrying his meager overnight fortifications and hopped out of the wagon. The driver barely waited for Marek’s boots to hit the ground before snapping the reins.

Marek eyed the long path to the front of the manor uncertainly. He had more viscera coating him than the buckets in the back of a butcher’s shop.

Nerves danced in his belly as he knocked on the door. What if whoever waited on the other side recognized Caleb Lazur? He should have stopped to glance at the nameplate on the gate—was there enough time to run back and check?

A woman roughly one or two years Marek’s junior opened the door. Fiery red hair cascaded past her shoulders, curtaining her slim frame like the sun blazing around the horizon. Freckles kissed the rounds of her cheeks. A mouth Marek could write poems about widened into a grin.

Marek’s nerves melted into a slow smile. A beautiful woman staring at him in wide-eyed curiosity. Familiar territory at last.

“Hello, soldier. Welcome to our home.”

She stepped aside, and Marek didn’t take his eyes off her as he crossed the threshold. “And what a beautiful home it is,” Marek said. They could have been standing in the middle of a sinking cesspool for all he cared.

A throng of servants appeared out of nowhere, whisking off his filthy coat and dabbing the sludge caked into his hair.

A bout of shyness stifled the girl’s momentary confidence, and she pointed at the stairs without lifting her gaze to Marek’s.

“The attendants will see you to your chambers. Once you’ve had a chance to freshen up, please join me and my mother in the sitting room.

We have the most luscious cake prepared for you. ”

Before Marek could get the girl’s name, he lost sight of her in the flurry of attendants. They hustled him across the manor and into an empty room, where he was stripped bare and scrubbed nearly to the bone.

Once Marek had been cleaned to within an inch of his life, he buttoned his white shirt into a pair of high-waisted black trousers and tied the leather ends of his suspenders into the belt loops.

Marek smirked at the mirror. Sulor, the section leader at their compound, had ordered Marek to get his hair cut to issue length, but Marek had convinced the barber to leave a little extra.

Wisps of gold fell over his forehead. His skin glowed, having miraculously survived the fabric of the compound’s cot.

The bruise on his chin, while not the most attractive injury in his new collection, would remind the hosts of Marek’s noble and brave endeavors on their behalf.

(Never mind that he had gotten the bruise by tripping over a basket and hitting his chin on the buckle of a saddle.)

The servant outside Marek’s door led him to the sitting room.

Decadence draped every facet of Marek’s temporary accommodations, from the hundreds of lanterns flickering in empty rooms to the carpets and curtains dyed in more shades of violet and black than should ever exist in one place.

Marek passed a steel door bearing Nizahl’s insignia and grimaced at the gilded raven flying from between the two clashing swords.

Two people stood at his entrance. One was the girl who’d greeted him at the door. The other woman shared similar features to the first, but bestowed with age’s loving touch. Silver streaked her short red hair, framing the sharp cut of her chin and the bow of her lips.

Marek couldn’t believe his luck. I have passed into death, and eternity has met me with bliss.

He took his host’s hand and bowed, brushing his lips lightly over her wedding band. “My lady. I have marveled at my privilege to be hosted at the loveliest home in Nizahl, and now you grant me your company? The blood I shed on the battlefield is not worth half this honor.”

“Leave your formality at the door, soldier. You may call me Mira.” The orders fell naturally, as prim as the rest of her property. “You’ve already met my daughter. Gigi, did you say hello?”

“Hello.” Gigi blushed. Adorable.

Marek kissed her hand, too, and straightened with a smile. “A pleasure.”

Had there ever been a more delicious dilemma?

If Marek were a smarter man, his gaze would stay with the daughter.

He would subtly coax her from her shell with a mixture of humor and rapt attention, and when the time came to retire, he would restrain himself to a kiss on her cheek and a gentle good night.

But Mira cocked a brow at Marek, pointing at the chair in silent command, and Marek was lost.

He could almost hear Sefa cajoling him. She would call him a jelly-kneed obsessive who couldn’t resist a pretty smile.

She’d ask if he had developed a taste for the fists of cuckolded husbands.

The one trait all these women share is their unavailability , Sefa would scold.

When will you find someone who can love you the way you deserve?

The answer was never. As long as Marek drew breath, he belonged to Sefa. What woman would accept second place? Marek never treated his lovers cruelly. He didn’t pretend to offer his heart or feign interest in a future where he wasn’t at Sefa’s side.

A steaming cup of a greenish tea passed into his hands. Marek took a sip and valiantly managed not to spit it back out. The tea tasted like shredded grass and the pungent seed Raya would drop in their stew for seasoning and forget to fish out before serving.

“Zangabeel,” Gigi said. “It calms the nerves.”

Marek forced himself to swallow. “Then I may need a second cup to ease myself into an evening in such lovely company.”

Conversation with Gigi flowed easily. The girl was chattier than Marek had guessed, and he nodded along more often than he contributed.

To Marek’s right, Mira’s gaze had stayed steady on him since he sat down.

A thrill tingled at the base of his spine.

The hunt was always most fulfilling when Marek felt hunted in turn.

Jeru had no idea the favor he’d shown Marek, assigning him to this neighborhood.

The thought momentarily shorted Marek’s attention. He missed what Gigi said about her favorite scouring method for restoring a rusted short blade.

Jeru wouldn’t do Marek a favor. He had sent him to this neighborhood—this house —for a reason.

“My lady, if you would forgive my impudence,” Marek said. “Which household name do I have to thank for my excellent accommodations?”

Mira arched a brow. “You didn’t check the gate?” She clicked her tongue. “I suppose the oversight can be forgiven in these circumstances.”

“Our household name is Shinawy,” Gigi supplied, scowling at her mother.

When the next rotation leaves to quarter in the noble towns, I will send you to the Shinawy manor. Find me the insignia, and I will help you find Sefa.

Meeting Mira’s unflinching stare, Marek’s smile turned predatory.

For all of Jeru’s buttoned-up village-boy virginity, he hadn’t been shy about using Marek’s particular talents to win a way into the hearts—and confidences—of the noblewomen.

If Mira had information about the missing insignia from the Siege of Six Dawns, Marek would work tirelessly until he got it.

He would stay up all night long if he had to.

Once Gigi excused herself for the night, the real fun began. Mira took the cup from Marek, set it delicately onto its platter, and straddled his lap.

“We owe you a great debt for your efforts tonight, soldier,” Mira purred against his cheek.

Marek weaved his hand through her hair and tightened his grip. He hooked a smile against her forehead. “How would you like me to collect on this debt?” His voice dropped to a low rumble.

Mira shivered. With a quiet laugh, Marek kissed the corner of her mouth and murmured, “Brace your knees for me, my lady.”

Marek stood, Mira clinging to his shoulders, her knees hitched on his hips. With the directions she provided in between bites to his ear and throat, he navigated to her chambers on the third floor. The servants blowing out candles politely averted their gazes.

Marek chuckled. Always a pleasure to offer a juicy piece of gossip for the staff.

The door had scarcely clicked shut behind them before Mira shoved Marek against it. She yanked his suspenders off his shoulders and worked through the buttons on his shirt with the vindictiveness of one greeting an old enemy.

“Patience.” Marek caught her hands and flattened them to his chest. “Time is on our side.” He popped a button toward the bottom, exposing a strip of his stomach.

“Or…” Mira promptly ripped Marek’s shirt open. She gazed at his naked torso with a hunger Marek found deeply flattering and a dash frightening.

Marek hadn’t been intimate with anyone since the second trial of the Alcalah. It was the longest he had stayed abstinent in years.

He’d missed this so much. The tension in his muscles melting under a warm touch. The riptides of pleasure, climbing and cresting, dragging him to exquisite depths. The shattering bliss on his enthusiastic partner’s face.

Mira pulled off the straps of her dress and went to work undoing the lace over her breasts. How rude of Marek. He stopped her with an open-mouthed kiss. “Let me.”

In minutes, their clothes were a combined pile near the door, and Marek clasped Mira’s wandering hands together while he drew her to the bed.

He landed in pillows infinitely softer than the atrocities in the compound, which would have snapped his neck on impact if he’d fallen on them so heavily. Candlelight cast its dancing shadows over the walls. In their light, Mira’s fiery hair glowed.

She pinned his wrists over his head, a wicked smile on her rosy lips. And Marek, who had always known he’d make a terrible soldier, easily surrendered.