Page 41 of Warrior Princess Assassin (Braided Fate #1)

“Relax.” The king flips the dagger in his hand, then holds out the blade to me, hilt first. His voice is low, and maybe a little sad. “Here, Princess. He’ll trust you. Cut the rest of the tunic free.”

“No,” says Asher.

“Yes. It’s already sticking to the wound, and it’ll only get worse. You’re risking infection. It needs to dry.”

Asher’s blue eyes seem to darken. But he swallows, which makes me think the king’s words are true.

“Would you rather pull it over your head?” says Ky. “I’m sure it wasn’t enjoyable when they put it on .”

Asher looks away, and his voice goes very quiet. “I don’t want her to see.”

I frown. “Maybe...” My own voice has gone thready. Again, I think of all the times he avoided my touch, how I thought it was propriety. Chivalry. In the last day, I’ve begun to realize it’s something else. Something much darker.

I don’t want your pity either.

My stomach clenches again.

“Here,” I say to the king. I move to hand the dagger back. “Maybe you should do it, then. I’ll...I’ll go.”

Asher whips his head around. “No. Stop. Just—” He makes a frustrated noise, then sets his jaw and glares at the fire. “It doesn’t matter. Just do it, Jor.”

That sounds more like resignation than acceptance, but I move to kneel beside him.

The straw of the bedding shifts under my knees, and I can see that he’s leaked through his shirt a little more, probably from all the movement.

Even covered, what I can see of his skin is red and angry, the swelling spread well away from the brand.

It must be agonizing. I remember the guard punching him in the shoulder, the sound he made. My belly gives a clench, and I swallow.

Everything between us seems so precarious—and Asher just said he doesn’t want me to see. “Are you sure?”

His eyes don’t leave the fire. “Yes.”

I put the blade against the neckline of his tunic and it slices right through, razor-sharp.

I’m slow and careful, trying not to cut him, but also trying not to pull at the fabric.

He went pale when the king barely tugged at it downstairs.

But as the tunic begins to fall away, every inch reveals the smooth, muscled curve of his shoulder.

I haven’t seen this much of his bare skin since we were young, when we used to sneak out of the palace to swim in the deep creek that runs through the woods.

We’d lie in the sun to dry, always in varying states of undress.

Never anything too bold, because he was raised as a gentleman, and we were still children.

But I remember the summer he suddenly turned into a young man, his knobby shoulders gone, his frame fuller, his jaw sharper.

His shoulders are broader now, of course, cords of muscle running down his arms, surely an effect of whatever training he endures. But the memory is potent, and I rest a hand against his skin, my fingers falling into the dip and slope just inside his good shoulder.

He stiffens at once, inhaling sharply, and it gives me a jolt. I think of the way he whirled on the king downstairs—just after I touched him then, too.

I jerk my hand back. “I’m sorry,” I say in a rush. “I’m sorry.” I’m not sure what else to say. “I know—I know how much you hate that.”

A moment passes, and he says nothing. But he’s not glaring at the king anymore. He’s cast his gaze over his shoulder, that white-blond hair falling across his forehead.

“It’s not that I hate it,” he says, his voice so quiet. “I’m just...broken, Jory.”

I stare back at him. As the tunic has begun to fall away, I’ve spotted more bruising, some of which he must have earned in the palace dungeons.

But scarred tissue mars his skin in places, too, and there are older bruises that have turned yellow and blue.

Older scars, older wounds, older injuries—and I never knew about any of them.

His body tells a story I’ve never heard.

They must have done the first brand right after his mother died. Right after my mother died. I was sobbing at my brother’s feet, and I thought nothing could possibly be worse.

For Asher, it clearly was.

I’m just broken.

My throat is tight.

The king has drawn closer, and he speaks from right beside my shoulder. “The rest is stuck to the burn,” he says. His accented voice is so practical, cutting right through whatever emotion hangs between me and Asher. “Brace yourself.”

Asher scowls and looks back at the floor.

Without hesitation, the king reaches out and rips it clean off.

I gasp, because the full wound is even more vicious than what I could see.

Bright red and blistered, with darkened bruising that makes me a little dizzy to even look at it.

Asher doesn’t make a sound, but his right hand has grabbed hold of the bedding.

He’s clutching so hard that his knuckles are white, his muscles trembling.

A sheen of sweat has broken out across his shoulders, and I don’t think he’s breathing.

Ky reaches out, his palm falling over the nape of Asher’s neck, the way he did downstairs.

“Breathe,” he says softly. “Just breathe. It’ll pass.

” His voice has the quiet reassurance of a man who’s seen a thousand injured soldiers try to swallow their pain.

His hand settles there, unmoving, until Asher lets out a breath, gasping like a winded horse.

Ky shifts his thumb, his finger brushing through the hair at his nape, and Asher’s taut muscles seem to ease, just a little.

His hand unclenches. His shoulders droop and his forearms pull against his abdomen, and he almost seems to curl in on himself.

For the longest time, silence settles around us as Asher’s breathing slows.

His skin glows in the firelight, gleaming where sweat bloomed.

The king’s hand hasn’t moved from his neck, but after a while, Asher ducks his head away.

The links of the chain jingle as Ky lets him go.

But Asher keeps his back to me, his eyes on the fire.

That feels deliberate.

I swallow thickly. I could barely hear him, but Ky’s words from the dining room are haunting me.

If she is to be a queen, she should know what has been done to you.

I lift my gaze to look at him. “You knew,” I say. “Even before the guards took him. You knew something had been done to him.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I’ve seen the effects of torture before, Princess.”

It’s as pragmatic as everything else he says, but the word makes me shiver, and my breath catches before I can help it.

Asher snaps his head up. His voice is sharp. “I told you I don’t want your pity.”

I shift on the pallet until I’m facing him. I don’t feel very formidable right now. A part of me wants to hide.

“Why haven’t you ever told me?” I say, and my voice almost goes soft on the last word.

His blue eyes go hard. He says nothing.

My heart pounds. “I need to know,” I say. “I need to know what my brother has done.”

Nothing. His jaw is set.

Silence pulses between us, and I’m so aware of the king at his side. Those shackles bind them together, but I suddenly realize there’s an invisible link, too. A shared comprehension that I can’t quite understand.

But I want to. I never knew how much he was hiding, and it’s making my chest tight, my eyes hot. “Asher, you’re my best friend. My only friend.” My voice breaks. “I would’ve done anything for you. Why wouldn’t you tell me? Why, Asher? I could’ve helped you—”

“No!” He whirls to face me, and his voice is sharp and loud, like the crack of a whip. “You couldn’t.”

The force of his anger makes me snap back. I can’t catch my breath.

“How would you have helped me?” he demands. His eyes are so fierce. “How, Jory? You saw what they did to my mother. What do you think they would’ve done if they knew I was sneaking into the palace?”

My eyes fill, and I try to blink the tears away.

Asher shifts closer. “And what would you have done?” he says. “What would you have done if I’d shown you the brand on my shoulder? What would you have done if I told you what it was like to be chained to a post and traded away like property? What could you have done?”

My breath catches. “Asher—”

“You say you want to know,” he says. “But you don’t even know what you’re asking for.

” His eyes are so hard, his voice so cold.

“Do you want to know what it’s like in the brothels?

The way they’ll starve you if you don’t perform?

The way they like it if you fight, because they can be as rough as they want?

Do you want to know what it was like to have men and women from the palace—men and women I once knew — hand over a palmful of coins to have me on my knees? Or on my back, or bent over a rail—”

“Asher.”

The king’s voice is quiet, but it makes me jump. My breathing is shaking, and my palms have gone damp. Everything inside me feels tight and afraid.

I’m remembering our conversation when we were curled up in my bed and I admitted my inexperience.

Do you think it will hurt?

The way he said, It shouldn’t...if it’s done right.

Later, when I asked about his own experience, he said, I don’t want to be indelicate.

I thought he was being coy. Not...not hiding something like this.

But now I’m thinking of the way he flinches every time I touch him. I’m looking at the scars on his body, or the areas where he has older bruising. I’m remembering the first time I heard one of my ladies called the bondsmen slavers , and I’m wondering if I should have paid more attention.

I’m thinking of that woman downstairs, curled up on the fur.

And as soon as I have the thought, I remember how long Asher was away, my relief when he finally returned to my chambers after months with no word. I teased him about a woman catching his eye, and he denied it. He never really said anything at all.

But now he’s got a body full of bruises that aren’t fresh, but certainly aren’t very old.

Were you injured?

Not really.