Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
The King of Mouren is here.
Right here, close enough that I could reach out and touch him. Or stab him, as I’ve fantasized about doing so many times.
Gareth still has a tight grip on my arm, but I have a stolen knife in my opposite hand and gods am I tempted to take a swing with it.
Somehow, I make myself keep still, studying the king instead.
The golden mask covers most of his face, but it curves elegantly across the lower half to reveal full lips drawn in a tight, emotionless line. A thin layer of dark auburn stubble graces his strong jaw. His eyes peer out like two distant stars in the night; pale blue, beautiful, eerily cold.
Most of the soldiers seem as surprised as I am to see their king.
They exchange wary words and uncertain glances.
Some are still bowing, as if they’re hoping he won’t make eye contact with them—that he won’t blame them for the chaotic state of their encampment.
Others are still working to get the chaos under control, attempting to capture the intruders who didn’t flee at the king’s arrival.
The dragon hatchling is still beside itself, screeching and straining against its bindings, trying to drag itself in my direction. For an instant, I almost wish we were bonded, only so that I might be able to command it to shut the hell up; the racket it’s making certainly isn’t helping my nerves.
Gareth’s fingers dig harder into my arm. “Everything is under control here, Your Majesty. You needn’t have come.”
King Reave motions, and the ones who arrived with him all dismount in unison.
Their horses remain unnaturally still as the riders form rank and move methodically into the camp, gliding without noise or flourish toward the remaining intruders.
They don’t draw their weapons right away; they merely lift their hands, motioning toward their targets.
Those targets seem too stunned to try and escape, and my throat tightens as I realize…it’s because these golden-masked riders all have magic as well.
It doesn’t seem as powerful as what their king commands, but it’s still brutally efficient at freezing singular subjects in place.
Once those subjects go still—completely defenseless—the riders finish them off with quick, precise stabs.
It’s a calculated slaughtering, one the king watches without any sign of emotion.
I still don’t know who these camp invaders actually are. Whether they were truly our would-be saviors, or if they would have turned out to be even worse enemies than the Mouren Army.
But it’s making me sick to my stomach all the same, watching them get cut down so ruthlessly.
“Stop,” I hear myself say. “Stop!”
The king cants his head toward me. But instead of ordering anyone to stop, his pale eyes flick from me to Gareth. “This is her, then?”
“Yes.” There’s an odd tightness in the commander’s voice.
“I will speak with her alone,” says the king.
“No, you won’t,” I snarl. “Not unless you stop this senseless killing first.” Tipping my head toward Briar, who is being held by two soldiers, I add, “And not until you let her go, too.”
The king’s eyebrows are hidden by his mask, but I imagine they’re raised. He still makes no move to stop anything, even when the tense silence between us is interrupted by the wet, squelching sound of another sword gutting its target.
“Stop this senseless killing,” I repeat, breathlessly, “and then maybe I’ll listen to whatever you have to say.”
“Hm.” King Reave glances casually at the killing in question, just as yet another body hits the ground. “A few worthless, cowardly lives spared in exchange for making this go more smoothly for me?” He shrugs. “Well, why not?”
He ends the slaughter with a single word, spoken in a language I don’t understand—whatever language is reserved for the higher ranks of Mouren, I assume.
His riders fall back with the same silent grace they attacked with, moving to stand at attention next to their horses. The rest of the Mouren soldiers disengage as well, focusing on putting out any remaining fires, righting supply crates, and tending to their wounded.
The surviving camp intruders scatter into the night.
The king watches them go with a slight frown. A dragon roars overhead. He glances up at it, and for a moment I tense, half-expecting him to go back on his word, to set the beast upon the runners.
Instead, he calls out an order to every soldier within earshot. “Form a perimeter. They likely have reinforcements lurking nearby.” His attention shifts to the ones still holding Briar. “And keep her secure until I say otherwise.”
I open my mouth to protest.
Then the king looks at me.
Fully, truly looks at me.
His gaze is as effortlessly powerful as his magic. I don’t consider myself easy to intimidate, but it’s hard to resist taking a step back as he comes closer, his eyes unapologetically sweeping over my body, assessing every inch of me. They linger for an instant on the knife clenched in my hand.
I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch, as if hiding amusement.
“Come inside,” he orders, jerking his head toward the largest of the nearby tents.
He enters it without another glance my way, as if it hasn’t even occurred to him that I might not listen—that I might try to fight my way free and bolt the second he turns his back.
He doesn’t even order anyone to take my knife.
Maybe because he isn’t used to anyone disobeying him.
Or maybe because he’s smart enough to realize I won’t risk anything happening to Briar.
“Go on, then,” Commander Gareth mutters, shoving me forward.
I clench my stolen knife tighter and, after a brief hesitation, I follow King Reave into the tent.
He’s rolling up his sleeves and removing his riding gloves when I step inside.
He casually tosses the gloves upon a makeshift table that’s been set up in the center of the tent, then reaches for a small lantern.
As he lights the lantern, I notice both of his muscular forearms are covered in strange, branching scars.
I freeze in place, staring at them while he removes his mask, sets it aside, and begins to sift through a stack of papers he grabs from the table.
At least a minute passes.
“I asked you to come inside, not to hover in the doorway looking as though you’re plotting something sinister.” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. “Do they not have manners wherever you’re from?”
“No,” I say, flatly. And because I’m tired and angry and a little stupid from hunger and dehydration, I don’t shut my mouth even though I know I should.
“Everyone is feral where I come from. We’re usually running naked through the woods at this time of night, howling at the moon.
I don’t even know how to properly exist inside such a fancy tent, to be honest—I’m going to end up making a mess of it.
Probably shit on the floor or something. ”
He glances up from under his long eyelashes.
For a tense moment, I think he might laugh; I can almost sense the cruel, dismissive chuckle building in his chest.
But any trace of humor that might have been bubbling up disappears as he drops the papers and saunters around to the front of the table, leaning back against it and folding his arms across his chest as he appraises me once more.
“Come here.” He nods to the space directly in front of him. “Now.”
My instincts scream at me not to move.
Then I think again of Briar, still captive outside, and I obey—though I stop with several feet still between us.
I want him to be hideous up close. For the lantern light to shine on an unmasked face so ugly that anyone in their right mind would be disgusted by it. A face that mirrors the ugliness he and his oppressive family must carry inside of them, to do the things that they’ve done.
It doesn’t seem fair that this man—this monster who has wealth and power beyond imagining—should also be allowed to be undeniably attractive.
But he is.
Godsdamn it, he is.
His stubble looked darker outside. In the lantern light, I see that it’s actually lighter, matching the dark gold and auburn waves of his relatively short hair.
The rich color pairs strikingly with the pale blue of his eyes, which are cold as winter frost and shining with a sharp awareness that makes my breath catch.
His nose is straight and strong, his mouth carved with equally flawless precision—the kind of features you usually only see in paintings.
Particularly ones where the artist has been bribed into perfecting the appearance of his wealthy clients.
I’ve never wanted to deface a work of art before.
But there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.
I’m clenching my knife so tightly, I’m starting to lose the feeling in that fist. The numbness in my fingers shoots up my arm and toward the base of my skull, making the tent spin.
The dragon hatchling continues to screech and bellow outside; a particularly shrill cry makes me wince. The king’s gaze shifts toward the sound. For some reason, I find myself holding my breath until he looks back at me.
“It’s rare for a dragon bond to exist outside of my kingdom these days.” His voice is low, his tone difficult to read. “Unheard of, actually.”
“There is no bond between me and that dragon.”
“That isn’t what the urgent message I received informed me. And it’s obvious the creature wants to get to you, even now.”
He steps closer, until there’s almost no space between us. Trying to intimidate me; I’m sure he’s used to people cowering when he moves against them like this.
I stand up straighter, lifting my face to his with unflinching defiance. “There. Is. No. Bond.”
We’re close enough that I can feel the warm puff of slightly exasperated air he exhales. Close enough to notice the subtle twitches of his mouth; for the third time since we’ve met, I suspect he might be on the verge of laughing at me.