Chapter 24 Theodora
THEODORA
NO ONE TELLS you that ruling means being a performer.
Drip.
You can be taught all the right things on your father’s knee—sit straight, think before speaking, trust your instincts—but pretending to be whole when you’re falling apart? That takes skill. That takes—
The tide rushes in and yanks you under. The more you drown, the longer it takes to die. And the longer it takes to die, the deeper you sink.
Down.
Drip.
An Anchor’s body is gold. You learn the value of it in how they treat you at the altar. The Oracle always runs her fingers through my hair, her touch gentle until it isn’t.
“Good girl,” she coos, right before she shoves the blade into my ribs.
When I gasp back to life, there she is again. Same words. “Good girl. Such a good girl.” Like I’m a pet performing a trick.
Fuck. You.
Drip.
Blood is my war paint. I don’t accept the cleansing after the ceremony. This body needs a reminder. It needs to know that it’s not a drowning set of lungs; it belongs to a woman, and that woman is me.
So I shove off the altar and let the blood drip through my gold temple dress. Let it paint my skin. I am going to fuck in all this blood.
I just need to walk out of the temple, down ten steps, and get into the carriage.
Drip.
“Your Highness?” Kas, my guard, falls into step beside me.
I don’t look at him. “I want it in the carriage.”
I’ve been called many things by many lovers. Ice queen. Heartless. Frigid bitch. They expect tenderness after I’ve let them inside me, as if I owe them that. As if they’re entitled to more than I’m willing to give.
I’m not interested in feelings. I’m trying to keep this body alive, and so it needs touch.
“Whatever you want,” Kas says as we exit the temple.
That’s why I keep him close. He doesn’t ask for what I can’t give, and the blood doesn’t bother him. It excites him.
Sensation crashes over me in waves—sight, sound, touch. Sun in my eyes. Too many voices. Too sharp. Too much. The trick is to focus on something small when everything feels too big: the pressure of Kas’ fingers, the weight of my dress, the way my heart pounds. My breath.
In. Out. In. Out. Don’t think about how you can’t feel your fingers yet. In. Out.
I force my legs to keep moving.
Find solid ground. Come on, Theo.
I stumble slightly, and hands close around my arms, steadying me before my trembling knees can fold.
“I have you, Your Highness.” Kas’ voice, low and measured. Grounding.
I meet my bodyguard’s gaze, those eyes missing nothing as they note my unsteady movements. No softness there, no tenderness, only the keen assessment of a professional for his charge.
“The crowd?” I ask.
“Worse than usual.” His attention flickers to the barricades outside the temple and the throng beyond. “We’ll have to move quickly.”
Nothing’s been right in the city since Bryony’s “death”.
Oh, we staged a lovely public funeral a fortnight ago—an empty casket, my uncle’s fake tears as he convincingly told everyone that the Wolf had come for their princess.
But Lucinian practice dictates a pyre with the body on public display, and generations of Devaliants observed the custom.
And all Idris had to show everyone was Bryony’s blood-soaked dress.
Funny how skeptical the masses become when you can’t produce a corpse to burn.
The only person in Vartena who knows for sure that my sister is alive is me.
I destroy every letter the Wolf brings from her after I read it.
And now that she’s gone—or so the people believe—the city’s collective grief has transmuted into something uglier.
Restless. Hungry for answers we’re not providing.
“Where is Princess Bryony?”
“Why won’t they burn her? Where’s the body?”
The ocean waves are closing over my head, pushing me into their depths.
Chin up, eyes forward. Don’t let them see.
This is the performance. The part no one teaches you. The part you learn if you want to survive in this world.
Kas’ grip tightens as he half carries me down the temple steps. The instant we clear the threshold, the crowd surges, straining against the wooden barricades. My guards form a protective circle as we approach the waiting carriage, hands resting on sword hilts.
Kas nudges me into the carriage. The moment we lurch into motion and the privacy curtain falls, I’m in his lap, dragging his mouth to mine.
“Fuck me,” I say, smearing my blood on his neck as I wrap my hand around his throat.
When I nip at his lip, he growls, hands finding my hips and dragging me closer. We both know what this is. What we are to each other. He’s the solid thing I cling to when the tide threatens to drag me under; I’m the outlet for his violent edges.
I can still hear the crowd’s screams beyond the carriage windows.
Where is she where is she whereisshe—
Kas makes a low sound in his throat. “Tell me how you want it.”
“Just shut up and touch me. I want to be sore after. I don’t want to think right now.”
This isn’t romance. It isn’t even really about attraction, although I can appreciate the clean, brutal lines of him.
No, this is about feeling alive. Warmth and sensation, the temporary giddiness of frantic coupling.
It’s about touching someone long enough to remind myself that there’s still blood moving through my veins, and the parts of me that feel broken and numb can still ignite.
I need to cram this body so full of pleasure that it forgets it was ever dead.
His fingers find their way under my skirts, yanking up the fabric. Finding the ties of my undergarments—
A shout from outside pierces through my hazed mind. Then another. And another.
“Your Highness!” One of the guards pounds on the roof. “The barriers—”
The sudden surge of voices drowns out the rest of his warning. The carriage jerks to a halt as bodies press against it. Through gaps in the curtains, I catch glimpses of faces contorted with desperation, hands reaching, grasping.
“Where is she? Where is Princess Bryony?”
Breathe in. Breathe out. Lock it down. Don’t let it touch you.
Kas hoists me off his lap and deposits me on the opposite bench, already going for his sword. All trace of the considerate lover is replaced by the battle-hardened bodyguard.
“Stay,” he orders me.
Bodies slam against the vehicle from all sides, rocking it on its wheels. My guards shout.
“Get back! I said get back, damn you!”
But they don’t. They won’t. I can hear it in their voices—that edge of hysteria that makes people dangerous. The press of bodies is too thick, barely allowing us to inch forward. My guards fight to free a path, and I catch snippets of their shouts over the din.
The horses finally break through, and the carriage gives a violent lurch. We hurtle down the street in a thunder of hoofbeats. Kas remains crouched beside me, one hand still on his sword just in case.
By the time we reach the palace gates, my hands have stopped shaking. I take exactly three deep breaths. In. Out. Box it away for later. You can fall apart in private.
“You good?” Kas asks, voice carefully neutral.
“Report to me in an hour,” I say, not answering.
The ocean in my mind pushes me down further into the black.
* * *
I throw open the door to Idris’ study without knocking. The scene that greets me is exactly what I expected—and somehow still disappoints.
“Really?” I drawl, taking in the spectacle before me. “On the trade agreements from Borgund?”
Lady Maris gasps, scrambling off the desk. Papers flutter to the floor. Her skirts are rucked up around her waist, and there’s a love bite blooming on her throat.
Idris doesn’t even have the courtesy to look ashamed. He just leans against the desk, stuffing himself back into his trousers. Judging by his blown pupils and the way he’s swaying slightly, he’s riding high on more than pussy and wine.
Pathetic.
“Get out,” I say to Lady Maris. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to.
“Your Highness, I swear, I didn’t mean to—”
“If the next words out of your mouth aren’t some variation of ‘it won’t happen again,’ I’ll make sure you’re the one who has to explain to Lord Aren why his proposal was crumpled beneath your bottom. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to postpone his winter shipments while we draft a replacement.”
Maris flushes. She drops a wobbly curtsy, mumbles something that could charitably pass for “begging your pardon, Highness,” and flees.
My uncle squints at me, trying and failing to summon the disappointment he used to level at me when I was a child swiping pastries before dinner. “A knock would have been appreciated.”
“So would a sober emperor.”
Idris rolls his eyes, grabbing the bottle of wine perpetually on the edge of his desk. “Have a drink, Theo.” He drinks directly from the neck of the bottle, his throat working. “It might help dislodge the stick wedged permanently up your ass.”
I clench my teeth. Don’t lunge over there and punch your uncle in the face. Calm. Poise. Control.
“Our people are getting restless,” I say, forcing my jaw to relax. “They tried to drag me out of my carriage after I made my tithe.”
He tugs at his clothes and downs a gulp of wine. “What do you want me to do? I already ordered them to give their tithes, and they’re back at the temple.”
“Some are back at the temple. Not all of them. You need to—”
“Go out there and soothe them? Kiss their babies? What?” He makes a sharp gesture with the bottle, wine sloshing. “They’ll get over it, or an Enforcer will kill them. I’m their emperor, not their nanny.”
I swear to the gods, this man is useless. I’d say it’s a wonder he can dress himself in the morning, but he doesn’t do that, either.
“Get over it?” My voice rises. “The city is still tearing itself apart over Bryony, and your solution is to what, exactly? Drink and rut with anything that has a pulse until they lose interest?”
“I asked for a buffer around the palace, and all royal tithes will no longer go through public streets. It’s dealt with. Happy?”