Page 85 of Unkindness of Crimson Ravens

Chapter 32

Emerald

The knock on the door pulled me out of the sweet dream—a dream that made me blush—yet I refused to let my eyes open.

The woolen blankets fondled my bare skin, the winter storm whistled through the ceiling, calming my mind. A slow smile tugged on my lips.

“Cordelia—” The door creaked open.

“Go away, Florence,” Francis rasped. My eyes flew open.

“Oh—” she mumbled, shutting the door.

I faced Francis, confirming I was indeed awake. His dark curls splayed out on the pillow as a small smile tugged on his lips.

My eyes traveled down his body: a white tunic hung on his shoulders, drops of crimson painted the fabric. My dried blood colored his lips.

“You look like you just saw a ghost,” Francis chuckled as he sat up on the bed. The sheet slid down his chest, revealing his torso.

“Moon save me.'' I rolled onto my back as the memories of last night rushed through my mind.

“I am afraid there is no salvation from me, Your Highness,” Francis winked. “Would you—” His eyes narrowed. “Should I take my leave?”

“No!” I said a little too fast. “I mean, no, it’s all right.”

“All right then.” A slow grin spread across Francis’ face as he got comfortable between my sheets. His hands slowly wrapped around my waist, guiding me into a hug. My back was against his chest when he squeezed me so tight that it made me laugh. “So my Princess does know how to laugh, huh?” His breath tickled my ear before he planted a kiss on my temple.

Despite my best attempts at hiding the smile, it found its way onto my face when Francis kissed the corner of my lips.

His fingers traced along my neck, making their way down to my scar. They paused, feeling the rough skin. “Silver blade,” Francis said as a matter of fact, studying the injury.

“He tried to cut my gown that night.” The words escaped me for the first time. “He isn’t very good with knives.” I laughed, though my laughter fell short when Francis’ hands tensed around me. “Sorry.” I faced him. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No.” Francis palmed my cheek, kissing the tip of my nose. “Don’t apologize for that. If you ever want to talk about it,” he met my gaze, “I will be right here.”

I managed a weak nod in reply.

A corner of Francis’ lips slightly rose. “Cannot wait to dry him empty.” His gaze darkened.

“You will not.” I shook my head, hating the words—I wished Timothy nothing but a long, painful death, but too much was at risk. “You can’t kill him,” I sounded like Mother.

“Is that so?” Francis chuckled, his brows flew up.

“I am being serious,” my voice dropped a few octaves. “You can’t. We need his father’s support.” My brows furrowed. “It will ruin everything—”