17. Isla
17
ISLA
I turn onto my side to check that my cousin’s lids haven’t sealed. She’s become so quiet since I explained last night’s activities, the Cauldron’s vision, and my conversation with Konstantin that I assume she sunk back into slumber.
But, no, Naeva is wide -awake. “He really suggested rejecting a mating bond?”
I slide one palm underneath my pillow, plumping it up under my cheek. “He’s a prick, isn’t he? To think our mothers believe him noble and kind.”
She rolls onto her back, her violet hair fanning around the perfect oval of her face. “I wonder who hurt him.”
“What?”
“I’m just thinking that his aversion to settling down could stem from past romantic trauma.”
“Where he’d have been the one traumatized?”
She shrugs. “It happens. Look at Antoni. Angry at the world because he didn’t end up with my sister. Do you know that he apparently never goes all the way because he’s too terrified of getting a mate?”
Huh . “I did not know, but how intriguing that you do.” When her lips pinch, I add, “I wonder if he’d go all the way with?—”
A pillow smacks my cheek. “Do not finish that thought.”
In spite of the tension roiling through my body, I laugh. Naeva side-eyes me, very unamused.
I add her pillow to my small stack. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“All right. I’m not.”
She finally smiles, but it’s tinged with such unease that I drop the subject of Antoni and lurch off the bed. “I need to go find your parents.”
“To…?”
“To ask them their thoughts on what I should do about the ring.” My stomach swooshes like it’s done throughout the night, pulling me from a series of tumultuous dreams.
In one of them, the ring had bonded with my finger. However hard I tugged, it wouldn’t slide off; it would just make me bleed. Since that wasn’t creepy enough, my subconscious had pitched Konstantin into the nightmare. He was holding the shot glass from the Tin Teapot underneath my finger to collect my blood.
“Should I force Konstantin to lend it to me? Should I forget about it and assume it’ll find a way onto my finger by the time the prophecy comes to pass? Should I?—”
A knock comes at the door just as I’m tying my black robe. Well, Naeva’s robe. I really need clothes.
“Probably Elio and Lach. They said they’d meet us here when they were ready,” Naeva says, pulling herself out of bed.
But it’s not our friends; it’s a messenger come to escort me for an audience with the king.
I consider not going, but what if he has Mestyla in custody? What if that’s the reason he’s calling for me?
“Perhaps add pants and slippers?” Naeva suggests.
The silk robe might be short, but it’s black and covers all the essential bits, so I ignore her suggestion. Besides, I don’t care to dress to the nines to meet with the asshole king.
When I enter his chambers, Konstantin is sitting at his desk, in full stately regalia, scratching up a sheet of parchment with his quill. His penmanship is so elegant that despite myself, I cannot help but admire it. If only I could shape such pretty letters.
“Would you care for a magnifying glass, Miss Ríhbiadh?”
I startle. “Excuse me?”
“You seem captivated by the document I’m penning.” He dips his plume into the inkwell, then appends a signature to his letter.
I perch a hand on my hip. “I was contemplating your penmanship, not trying to glean any of your secrets, you ass. Also, you sent for me . I assumed it was because you had Svyato and his daughter in custody.”
A beat of glacial silence slithers between us as he finally looks up.
A slow grind of his teeth later, he says, “My hallway is full of guards.”
“I’ve noticed.”
He shifts his attention back to his covert correspondence. After running his glowing palm over the ink to dry it, he folds the sheet into thirds and seizes a pale-blue wax stick, which he warms over a stocky candle.
“You ought not to roam about in your undergarments,” he says as he presses his signet ring into the coin-sized puddle now blighting the seam of his letter.
I peer down at my bare legs, fake gasping. “ Undergarments ? This is my gala outfit!” Oh, how I relish the uncertainty that flashes across his face. “So…Svyato’s daughter? Is she at the castle? Is she your niece?”
“If Mestyla has pointed ears, then she isn’t Svyato’s daughter.”
I counter, “I heard it’s rare, but there have been cases of children born to half-bloods and pure-bloods with broad ears. Maybe Mestyla is one of them? Svyato would have answers. Are he and Mestyla at the castle?”
“No. Salom didn’t find them.”
“How’s that possible?”
“Our visit must’ve spooked them.”
“Or Salom didn’t do a good job of looking,” I mutter, preferring to lay the blame on the general rather than our regrettable tavern antics.
Konstantin’s lips press into a thin line. After a beat, he adds, “Soldiers are still searching for them. They’ll be found.”
“Did you call me in here to apologize then?”
He reclines in his seat, his posture as stiff as his wide, lofty backrest. “If memory serves, you’re the one who used strong language in parting. But the night was long and emotions were high, so I won’t hold it against you.”
My jaw slackens that he paints me as the impolite one.
“I summoned you because Aodhan and I spoke at length after you departed last night, and we decided that we cannot involve Ilya.”
“Involve Ilya? In what?”
He rolls his neck, eliciting small cracks. “You mentioned wanting him to give you the ring.”
“And you mentioned me being your accomplice and just handing it over. After some thought, that suits me just fine. It’s just a ring.”
“That’s the thing. It’s not just a ring. It’s a symbol of my family and of my regard. The instant it graces your finger, everyone in Glace will assume I’ve chosen you as my queen.”
I shrug. “Let them assume.”
“My kingdom is already fraught with such uncertainty that adding more would only fuel the zeal of those who wish me dethroned. Which is why I’ve come to the decision to ask for your hand in marriage. I realize Glace and Luce are already allied, but a nuptial would strengthen our rapport. Also, it would force the antimorphs to accept that shapeshifters are here to stay, and it would conveniently get my stepmother off my back.”
I wait for the punchline. And wait. When none comes, I drawl, “Let’s not forget how it would tick off a certain arms dealer.”
“A true win-win.”
For a solid minute, I gawp at him, sensing he must be pulling my leg. “Wait…this isn’t a joke?”
His jaw turns into a block of ice. With a pulse. A feverish pulse.
“Vizosh”—I speak slowly so my words sink in—“a win-win implies both sides benefit, yet I fail to see what’s in it for me.”
The flush that grips his cheekbones is so brisk and strong that it colors his tone. “You’d get to wear the ring from the prophecy.”
I blink. And then I laugh. When his expression remains blank, my amusement withers. “You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m going to get fake engaged to you in order to wear your mother’s ring. I’ll just have a replica made.”
“It would be a real betrothal. A real nuptial. You’d get to be queen.” He waits for this to register, as though he thinks he’s found a winning argument. “Your father just got his throne back. I doubt he’ll be relinquishing it anytime soon.”
My lashes feel glued to my brow bone. “I have absolutely no interest in being queen. I’m too young, too sane, and still immensely hopeful to find my true mate—which cannot possibly be you, given that you dislike me and the very ground I fly over. Besides, I wouldn’t want to deprive a Glacin of the honor of your esteemed regard.” I take a breath. “Who am I to stand in some ambitious Faerie’s way? Just show me the ring, and I’ll get out of your hair.” Since Konstantin seems on the verge of a nervous collapse, I nod to his desk. “Should I just seek it out myself?”
His catatonic state perseveres, so I stalk toward his desk. Sure enough, he doesn’t stop me when I paint key sigil after key sigil on his drawers.
After checking all of them and coming up empty, I pop my hip and cross my arms. “Did you move it so I wouldn’t steal it, or has it already been stolen?”
He finally blinks, snapping himself out of his odd trance, and plays coy. “Whatever are you looking for?”
I suck my teeth. The talisman must’ve stripped him of his sound judgment, along with his porosity to iron, because few things are more ill-advised than provoking an already pissed-off Crow.
“The fucking ring.” I eye his jacket for a bulge, find none. Eye his pants next. The only bulge I find is between his legs—not my ring box. “Where the bloody underworld is it?”
Konstantin scoots his chair back and stands, and then he cages me against his desk. “If you want the ring, you’ll need to accept my marriage proposal, Miss Ríhbiadh.”
“Threaten me with marriage one more time, and?—”
“I’ll throw in a bargain.”
“A bargain?” I snort. “Konstantin Korol, there’s nothing you can offer me that I can’t get on my own.”
“I’m a king.”
“We’ve been over this. So is my father.”
His lips thin. “Everyone wants something.”
“I want a mate. Can you snap your fingers and reveal his identity so I don’t waste months of my life looking for him?”
“No, but if you do meet him while we’re engaged—or once we’re married?—”
There he goes again with his fixation on marriage… Has he met my family? No charm or Cauldric intervention will protect him from their wrath if he so much as attempts to force a ring on my finger.
“—then you can use the bargain to dissolve our union.”
“That’s surely the worst use of a bargain ever.”
“Look, I didn’t see the ring on your finger; the Cauldron did.”
“Tell me something… When you spoke to Aodhan, did you reveal your intentions?”
“Yes. He called me mad and insisted you’d never agree.”
“Yet you still went through with it,” I muse. “ Why ?”
“Because…because…because my kingdom is in fucking shambles, and I thought marrying a Crow would be a quick fix.” Konstantin straightens and takes a step back, lifting a hand to his nape. He rubs. And rubs. “I handled this all wrong, didn’t I?”
His sudden flailing defuses my temper. “I’m sure threatening a woman with marriage must work in certain cultures.”
He lifts his other hand to his nape and links his fingers together, bearing down on his head, angling it downward. “Fuck. I’m not usually like this.”
“Define like this ?”
“Demanding. Out of control. I just thought that since the Cauldron saw the ring on your finger, you’d go along with it.”
“If you’d have been my mate, I would’ve gone along with it .”
He peeks up at me, slowly straightening his neck. His arms stay lifted a beat, and then he lets them plummet back along his sides. Never in a thousand years would I have thought the Ice King so multifaceted. Which makes me realize that Konstantin Korol is an excellent showman, for in public, everything about him screams poise and arrogance.
He’s suddenly looming over me again, his chest so near mine, I feel his heart beating. I try to dissolve, but my great-grandmother’s wards keep my cells locked tight. So tight that my lungs feel devoid of air. When he reaches around me, I grip the carved wooden lip of the desk with two hands.
“What are you doing?” My voice sounds ridiculously husky. He better not misinterpret my panic for attraction.
“Giving you the ring.” He pulls back, adds a foot of space between our bodies, then presents me with a blue velvet box.
Was it on his table the whole time and I missed it?
“Just wear it and tell whoever asks questions that I gave it to you as a sign of my appreciation for Crows. Or tell them nothing. You don’t have to explain yourself.”
My lips pop open in astonishment that he’s changed his tune about parting with something of such great sentimental value. Especially when a minute ago, he was adamant we marry. And not even fake marry.
Though I still cling to the desk at my back, my knuckles have unclenched considerably. “Can you imagine if we had this whole spat, and it isn’t even the ring?”
His pupils dilate, then shrink. “You mean I might’ve just made a fool of myself for nothing?”
“Not for nothing. I’m now in possession of a most entertaining marriage proposal. Which I cannot wait to relay to my family.”
“Gods, help me,” he murmurs, scrubbing his face with the hand not holding the box.
I grin.
When he lowers his hand, amusement has softened his own expression. “You will end up being the death of me, Miss Ríhbiadh.”
I tap his chest, meaning to remind him of the medallion. He must misinterpret my gesture because his smile vanishes and his pulse goes wild.
“Relax, Vizosh. I wasn’t about to carve your heart out. I was just going to point out that it’s safe, thanks to the Cauldron and Mimi. Now, let’s see it.” When he doesn’t open the box, I tilt my head. “Konstantin?”
Still no reaction. Did I accidentally stun him with a spell? A glance at my fingertip reveals it’s not bleeding. Reassuring, although it does make me wonder why he seized up this time.
“The ring?” I say, keeping my voice soft.
A shudder races across the stiff line of his shoulders, and he thumbs open the box almost manically. Though unsoiled, the heirloom is unmistakable—with its razor-sharp edges and myriad of facets. I tip my stare back to Konstantin’s, trying to fathom why the Cauldron insists I wear a Korol heirloom while killing a woman who must, in some way, be connected to Alyona.
Why, Cauldron?
“It’s not my ring that you wear, is it?” Uncertainty infuses his stare with shadows, and his tone with… dejection? If he’d been correct, shouldn’t he have been elated?
“Is it such an unusual cut and color that you’d be the only one to possess an octagonal blue diamond?”
He frowns, as though unsure why I care about the heirloom’s uniqueness. “My father forbade jewelers from replicating the cut on any stone. He wanted my mother’s ring to be unique.”
I sigh. “Then, I’m afraid that, yes, Konstantin Korol, it…”
The air suddenly shivers with voices, and then Konstantin’s door sweeps open and in trots Izolda. She blinks at me while I jolt—flinching once more when the door settles in its frame with a sharp click.
Her striped stare captures the scene before her. “Did I just…did I just walk in on a marriage proposal?”
I moisten my throat with a swallow.
Before I can explain, she cries out, “You two are mates, aren’t you!” She claps excitedly. “I sensed it!”
When her eyes begin to shine with tears, panic grips me. Throttles me.
Konstantin closes the ring box with a snap. “Iz…”
“I’m sorry for barging in on your private moment.” She blots her eyes on her index fingers, careful not to smudge the gold stripes she’s matched to her gold gown. “They’re tears of joy,” she croaks. “You don’t know how many nights I’ve fallen asleep dreaming that my brother would someday find true love like I have.”
Color weaves through Konstantin’s pallor.
“Can I hug you, Isles?” She starts moving toward us, fanning her emotion-filled face.
Konstantin steps back. As Izolda throws her arms around my neck, I gape at her brother, silently beseeching him to do something .
“When did it happen?” Izolda’s voice is muffled against my hair, but not muffled enough for me to pretend like I didn’t hear her. “Was it at the Lodge?”
“No,” I say, because Konstantin is fully committed to his role as a decorative statue.
“At the carnival?” she asks. “That’s why he disappeared. Because he couldn’t stand that you went to dinner with Lev, but he was too proud to keep you from it!”
“No.” Her crestfallen expression has me scrambling to find a denial that won’t further depress her, but instead, I find myself blurting out, “It happened just after.”
Konstantin blinks, while I sink into a bubbling cauldron of mortification and regret.
What the bloody underworld, Isla?