Page 58 of Thorn Season (Thorn Season #1)

I f I’d possessed any doubts about Erik’s intentions, tonight’s decorations would have swept them away. The ballroom glittered like a treasure trove—strung with diamonds and aquamarine and blushing rose quartz, with moonstones beading like dew drops on every surface.

A roaring celebration of my province, the gem of Daradon.

“My mercenaries are ready.” Sabira’s lofty voice coasted over the revelry. She’d dressed in funeral attire: black armored velvet, dark lipstick, fake onyx at her wrists. As if my rise to power tonight would mean a small death for court.

Gracious gods, she was dramatic.

“You understand what they are to do?” I asked.

She recited, in accordance with the second demand I’d made of her, “They will arrive at Vereen’s borders at dawn tomorrow with orders to search the old xerylite mines for sympathizer factions.

They shall wait there an hour before I call them off, saying you’ve had a change of heart.

They shall return to Parrey”—her nostrils flared—“and I shall pay them anyway.”

“Pinch some jewels tonight to cover the cost. I’m sure Erik won’t mind a few missing pieces.”

Sabira seethed in silence.

For the sake of appearances, my initiative had to be believable up until the last moment.

But I couldn’t allow Sabira’s mercenaries to actually enter my province; I’d even given them a fake map of the underground tunnels.

If my plan didn’t draw out the copycats as expected—if something went wrong—at least Vereen would be safe.

“Why trick the gentry this way? To show them how cruel you can be, or how merciful?” Sabira stuck her nose in the air. “The game you wish to play requires more skill than you possess.”

“You’re boring me, Lady Sabira,” I warned. “Ensure that your use to me outweighs the effort of hearing you talk.”

“You make a mockery of your noble heritage.” She looked over my shoulder and fear tightened her eyes, wrinkling her beauty marks. “I’m a woman of my word. I hope you are, too.” Then she hurried into the crowd.

Someone seized my arm. I spun, yanking on my specter—

And paused.

Garret’s tanned face was almost unrecognizable—gray-tinged and sickly, with dark stubble bristling down his neck, and eyes pink around the edges.

Still alive. Yet somehow, already a corpse.

“Do you have the compass?” he asked.

Relief drowned my shock, and I smacked his hand away. “Briar hasn’t located it yet? What a shame. But don’t fear; I’m sure she’ll find some way to save her Hunters.”

“She already has,” he growled.

“Excellent. Then you have no use for me.”

Garret’s ears reddened. “I know you,” he said darkly. “This initiative is a hoax. You would never wage war against Verenian sympathizers, which means you’re doing this for another reason.” He looked me over, air whistling through his nose. “You have a plan to get the compass.”

“So, what if I do?”

“You need to give it to me, Alissa. It’s too dangerous—”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s far too dangerous.” Those prison tunnels blazed in my mind, and I lowered my voice. “That compass has caused more suffering than you can imagine. Left in the hands of murderers, it’ll only cause more.”

“I’m surprised you still care about anyone but yourself.

Isn’t that why you’re doing all this?” His eyes darted around the bejeweled room, and I knew he was referring to my marrying Erik.

“You know this isn’t just pretend, don’t you?

You’ll actually have to go through with it.

Marrying him, living with him.” His nostrils flared; his throat bobbed. “Bearing his children.”

“I’m well aware,” I said calmly. “We’re considering a winter wedding.”

Garret grimaced, surveying me again. “I don’t know how you can stand to be around him.”

“Oh, it’s not so difficult.” I returned his assessing glare. “I can stand to be around you , can’t I?”

He flinched, still pierced by my words because he still cared. I hated my own bolt of satisfaction, because it meant I still cared enough to want to hurt him. And more than anything else, I was so tired of spending my emotion on Garret.

“Briar was impressed you’d dug your claws into him,” he rasped. “She’d hoped you would be more pliable without your father’s influence—that she could work your talent to her advantage. She said it’ll be a shame to waste you, because you have the makings of a great Hunter.”

“Then let’s make it a hunt.” I smiled sharply. “The first one to the compass wins.”

A feral look glazed his eyes. He grabbed my shoulders and shook. “Don’t you understand? The king—”

“The king doesn’t like when people manhandle his future queen.” Erik’s voice came, cold and clipped, from behind me.

Garret dropped his hands as if burned.

Erik slid to my side, looping a lazy arm around my waist, and I rested my hand upon his shoulder.

Gods cannot stand alone , he’d said. Perhaps there existed some truth in those words.

Because as Garret looked on in horror, I straightened, drawing strength from Erik’s presence.

I let the king’s power flow through me— fill me—until even my specter sang from the force of it.

“Problem, Capewell?” Erik drawled.

Garret snapped from his daze and bowed low. “No, Your Majesty.”

“Then apologize.”

Garret went taut. With gritted teeth, he turned to me. “I’m sorry... my lady .” It was the first time he’d addressed me with the honorific. It looked as if it pained him.

Erik leaned down, lips grazing my ear. “Your decision, my love?”

Again, a thrill of power rushed through me. That night with Quincy had proved I hadn’t yet perfected my influence over Erik, but he was bending to me slowly. In time, I would master his moods. Then, like a compass’s needle, I would direct his wrath toward more deserving targets.

I held Garret’s stare so he understood the warning: The king held the Hunters’ reins. But soon, I would hold the king’s.

“Dismissed,” I said.

Garret turned into the crowd, hands fisted at his sides.

“As for you—” Erik squeezed my waist, startling me. I looked up to find a slow grin curving his lips. “ You ... are beautiful.”

My stomach unclenched.

“Do you like it?” he asked, gesturing around the ballroom.

“It’s extraordinary.”

His smile widened. “It’s all for you.”

The other nobles knew it, too.

Their eyes trailed me all night—even during the fealty ceremony, when, for a brief moment, every eighteenth-year noble should have claimed the center of attention. One by one, the courtiers of the new generation climbed the wide dais, where Erik gleamed like a sculpture before his silver throne.

Perla was ninth in line, shuffling up the steps and swearing her fealty so quietly that the gentry unanimously craned forward to hear her.

Then she inched closer to Erik, the top of her head reaching just below his shoulders, and she fastened a pearl pin to his jacket.

She held her breath, seeming to expect his sudden movement.

But Erik stood in perfect composure, looking amused as she fumbled with the clasp.

She drew back and curtsied, awaiting dismissal. Erik delayed until her pose began to tremble. Then he said, with delight and good humor, “Thank you, Lady Perla. I gratefully accept your fealty.”

Erik’s jacket was bespangled with jewels by the time I clicked onto the dais. The idea of this ceremony had once filled me with dread. Now I dreaded all that would happen once it ended.

Knotted with nerves, I fastened a xerylite pin—my own symbol of fealty—to Erik’s jacket and said with empty meaning, “Please accept this, Your Majesty, as a token of my eternal service to the Crown.”

I was halfway into my curtsy, head lowered, when Erik’s finger hooked under my chin. He tilted my face up.

Smiling faintly, he murmured, “Queens do not bow.”

Then he dipped his own head to brush his lips against mine—an action that rippled through the gentry in shuffles and whispers.

I spent the rest of the evening agitated, which Erik must have mistaken for nervous butterflies because he took extra care with me—holding me gently while we danced, tucking loose strands of hair behind my ear.

The room began to throb with music and laughter, and the crowd grew livelier, buzzing like flies being shaken in a jar.

Was the attacker here already, waiting to get me alone? I tried to spot the anomaly in the horde, but the faces blurred together.

“You’re distracted,” Erik whispered. Despite the lingering damage to his ribs, he let me lean against him at the edge of the dance floor, his eyes shining with such soft affection that I knew: If he ever discovered I’d been the one to strike him, he would sentence me to an excruciating death.

I mustered a sweet smile. “I’m just thinking.”

“Of?”

“A birthday gift for my king.”

Erik would turn twenty-two next month, and the servants were already speculating about my role in the occasion. Some had even suggested I hold my seating ceremony on the same week and declare a national holiday.

“You’re already giving me everything I want.” His hand found mine, and he caressed the spot on my finger where the engagement ring would go.

My insides churned, and I had to look away.

Perla’s eyes caught mine across the room. She turned her head instantly, as if she’d been watching.

“She troubles you,” Erik said, following my gaze. “Perhaps you could make her your lady-in-waiting.”

“I don’t desire a lady-in-waiting.” Especially one who would want to stab me with my own hairpins.

“Then create a new position for her. The Maiden of Melancholy, or some nonsense.”

I smacked his chest, earning his deep chuckle. I didn’t realize until a second later that I’d just hit the king of Daradon. I was the only person who could do so without consequence.

He said, more serious, “You were always my only choice. Don’t feel guilty for being superior.”

Superior. The word struck an uncomfortable chord inside me. “That’s awfully blunt.”