Page 15 of Vow of the Undead (The Bloodrune Saga #1)

O nly hours after the witch’s execution, a storm rolled in. The heavy rain washed her blood away by the next twilight when we woke to continue traveling.

Though I rode with King Drakkar like both his chosen prize and his prisoner, tethered with a sea knot around my wrists, he rarely spoke to me.

Hardly anyone spoke at all.

When I told the king he was damning every exile to their death, he only grunted like the animal he was. And then when I switched to asking what purpose the weakened exiles would serve on ships bound to explore beyond Vylheim, he demanded I stop talking about the exploration.

It was the only time I witnessed a flash of anger across his arrogant face.

All wild thoughts of convincing the king and his council to call off this exploration diminished. They wouldn’t listen, and daring to defend the witches exiled to the wasteland would only put another target on my head before I had a chance to save them.

My only option was Freya’s suggestion.

Find the lost history .

Show the people of Vylheim.

Expose King Drakkar.

Four days of pelting rain had me grateful for the furs over my head and shoulders.

Since I sat in front of the king, sharing in his horse, I was at the front of the entire party.

He’d insisted I ride with him so that whenever the storm lightened, he could test me while the guards kept their eyes on me.

At least that was how his questions felt, because I had no clue what else their purpose would be.

What would he stand to gain from asking me about how I dealt with jealousy? And, what did I consider the definition of chaos?

I answered each one through my teeth. At first I thought he’d purposely waited until the rain fell in sheets to speak to me, like the storm provided some sort of privacy. Then I thought that maybe he expected a cold and miserable witch would be easier to bait into some sort of a confession.

He never stopped interrogating me long enough for me to consider the vision from Freya and how I might track a king’s blood, and maybe, after all, that was his intention. Though he’d have no way of knowing about the trial granted to me. He didn’t even believe in the Gods.

King Drakkar released another string of prying questions as the rain eased. These were more personal, which made it even more impossible to identify a pattern to his seemingly random interrogation.

Did I want to give up or work harder whenever I lost a race? Why had I never taken a husband? He asked if I preferred women, and then said that if so, he wouldn’t blame me.

“Women have a way of drawing everybody's attention.” His hand brushed against the bend of my torso but did not linger. “Your curves are a place of rest and comfort.”

“I prefer men,” I said .

I felt his smile in the silence that followed. I didn’t mean that I preferred him.

“Have you ever wanted revenge?” he asked. It was another question vastly different from the last to throw me off guard, and it worked.

“I have,” I said. The answer slipped from me so quickly that I didn’t have time to swallow it.

The revenge I wanted was against him. Send him to the wasteland for ten years and see if he survives.

A low rumble built in his chest and was felt through my back. His laugh was surprisingly warm, but his amusement made my blood boil.

“Good,” he said.

Was this all a game to him? Toy with the servant witch who saved his damn life?

If I wasn’t tied up, I might have slapped him. The exhaustion of travel and endless rain, and the nerves about the unknown life ahead left me raw and impulsive, stupid even. Or perhaps it was the darkest part of me tempting me to attack him.

“I should have known,” he said. “You’re not the first person to want to gut a courtier.” He leaned closer and my heart skittered. “You’re just the first to succeed.”

My pulse hammered in my ears. This was another bait.

Two of his courtiers were missing but that was likely all he knew.

How many other witches did he try to draw a confession out of?

This was a calculated witch hunt. Of course he blamed us, because this was another excuse to rid Vylheim of the women who proved authority more powerful than a king existed.

And anyway, what he’d said about me being the only one to succeed wasn’t true.

“Did you not dethrone the last king?” I asked. “I’d say that’s close to gutting a courtier.”

Another laugh rolled through him. I almost liked the feel of it. The movement warmed me. His body flush against mine was almost a small comfort, because when the horse cantered too quickly, I didn’t have effective use of my hands to hang on.

And when the horse picked up even more speed, King Drakkar gripped my waist. His fingers hooked into the bones at my hips.

“Almost like gutting a courtier,” he said. “True. But a king is not a courtier, and I didn’t gut him. In fact, he didn’t bleed at all when I snapped his neck.”

I bit my lip to keep my gasp muffled. He didn’t deserve the satisfaction of my shock.

Or was it curiosity? This was nothing new.

I’d heard the stories of how King Drakkar overpowered the former king, ending his life without wasting a drop of blood, because somehow, King Roderic didn’t have blood at all.

That was the story anyway.

Why did my mind paint a picture of what he’d said? Why did I replay the flash of King Drakkar murdering the former king over and over in my head in the seconds that followed his words? And why did I like it?

Because we’re both corrupt.

Sick

And evil…

“You see, Silver,” he said, as if he’d prepared a defense against my thoughts. “I never tell a lie.”

Now it was my turn to laugh. It came out sudden, loud, and inappropriate, as I sat with the king’s hands on my waist when I should have been executed alongside the brave witch who’d tried to change life for all of us.

Two members of the Grimward snapped their attention to us. A guard brought his horse closer until the king waved for him to back away from us.

With the rain lightened to a quiet drizzle, the guards could hear our conversation if they rode alongside us.

It only took one look and the flick of King Drakkar’s wrist to make sure they didn’t.

Apparently, he did want a little privacy with his captive witch. Goosebumps lifted across my collarbone.

“You don’t believe me?” he asked. “Test it.”

I chewed on my lip. Was this another bait? What could I ask him to test this claim?

If I asked him what he thought of the Gods, was that proof that I was a witch? Did it even matter? The guards, the Grimward, and the king himself had already called me a witch. They’d already captured me and tied me up.

I twisted my hands, trying to alleviate the rough cord scratching against the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrists. It only left darker red marks.

The cool rain was a relief, at least, but it left my fingers shaking and devoid of a healthy pink. I opened and closed my hands into fists to force blood into my fingers.

King Drakkar reached around and tugged at the cord. I seethed at the rope scratching my flesh raw, but as soon as he flicked his wrist, the knot released and he tossed the cord to the ground. He brushed his thumb over the red marks and I sucked in a breath.

Propping my fingers in his palm, he paused and held them there as if inspecting them. “Your skin matches the sea, and it’s just as cold.”

“Only my hands.” I tried to pull away but he clamped his fist around my hand.

He tugged my arm across my body so he could examine my fingers closely. “They’re entirely devoid of blood.”

“Yes.” I turned my hand over in his palm, no longer feeling the urge to recoil.

Children had been the only ones brave—or foolish—enough to ask about my blue hands, my black eyes, or why I sometimes couldn’t even keep up on a simple walk to the communal hearth.

My father had made sure nobody spoke of these weaknesses in his daughter, but he hadn’t been able to silence Alva. “I’m used to it.”

“Do they hurt? ”

“The cold hurts. But everyone feels the chill of winter.”

He shook his head. “Not like this.” My throat tightened, but I didn’t know why or where the sudden rush of emotion came from.

This was the enemy king and I was his captive servant, his acknowledgment of my cold hands was likely more about concern for how well I’d do my job rather than concern for my well being.

He wrapped his arms around me and buried my hands with his. “Now where were we?”

“Lying.”

With a laugh he said, “Testing, actually. Go on, ask me something important.”

“Why?”

“I want to know what you value, Silver.”

My mother. Freeing her from the exile he’d placed her in.

“I value life.” It was a regurgitated, basic, and vague response. It was perfect to keep him at a distance. He already had his fingers holding mine and his chest pressed against my spine, but I could keep this barrier between us.

“That’s unoriginal, and a lie.”

I twisted to glare at him. “How dare you say that!”

His wicked grin dipped to my ear again, and his lips brushed against me as he spoke. “You’ve killed, Silver.”

“Fuck,” I said, another word slipping out without my consent again.

His bait had worked. He was right, and he damn well knew it.

My muttered curse was the reaction of someone who’d just been bested.

How did he know what I’d done? And how did he see through me so easily?

All he knew was they were gone. “I defended myself.” This was a half-truth.

I’d wanted to hurt Astrid and Sten for taunting me.

I didn’t want to kill them—no, I never wanted to kill them—but I needed for them to know I could harm them.

That I wasn’t weak.

I was just selfish instead, and corrupt enough to finish them off .

“I’ve only ever acted to preserve my life,” I said. That wasn’t entirely untrue, just not as immediate as I made it sound. Still, it was vague enough to avoid a confession. I couldn’t admit I’d stabbed them.

“Good girl.”

“Don’t toy with me,” I snapped.