Chapter Ten
Ingrid
My own surprised shriek rings in my ears as I blink away the bleariness of sleep and try to calm my racing heart.
As soon as I figure out where it’s run off to, because it feels like it’s outside of my body someplace.
Through the haze of slumber, I can’t even process what startled me, struggling to rouse my thoughts with the rest of me.
Someone was touching me. In my bed—no, not my bed.
The bed I’ve been occupying the past week’s worth of nights isn’t mine, and I’m not in familiar territory.
All at once, the reality of my situation lands on my shoulders yet again.
That moment of confusion in the morning is the only reprieve I have from dwelling on the choices I’ve made, and today, that moment’s been cut short by an ember-eyed demon watching me with guarded curiosity.
The burning coals of his eyes are dull, the heat within gone cold, and I have no way to know if my interpretation of that is accurate, but that doesn’t stop a niggle of guilt from worming its way into my heart.
As far as I can tell, Xandril didn’t ask for this particular outcome of the Dealmaker’s bargain anymore than I did; I may not intend to go through with the wedding, I may even plan on finding any way out of it that I can, but that doesn’t mean I have to hurt him.
“I…um…” I stammer, his unwavering gaze making me fidget, smoothing down my silk sleeping gown before crossing my arms for some semblance of cover.
I can’t imagine the state I’m in right now: sleep crusting my eyes, hair a mess of tangles, wearing next to nothing—it’s no way to present myself to anyone, least of all my ‘future husband.’
Xandril says nothing, staying still as a statue on the bed.
He’s on his side facing me, raised up on one elbow to better level that smoldering gaze at me, and the only thing covering the expanses of impossible color-shifting skin is a rumple of bedcovers loosely draped over his hips.
His shoulders and upper arms are spiky and intimidating, but his chest is solid muscle, marked here and there by the silver lines of scars, and the nearer my eyes draw to the blankets, the drier my mouth feels.
The initial surprise of being shocked awake has begun to dull, my heart back and beating a steady rhythm.
A rhythm that says I should get back into bed, that it’s too cold and he is made of warmth.
I swallow the lump in my throat and force my gaze back to his. “I did not realize this was your bedchamber,” I say, voice shaking far more than I’d like.
“Our bedchamber,” he rumbles a correction.
There’s something in that deep voice of his that ignites a fire in me that has me forgetting all about the chill in the air. It’s two simple words, yet they stoke scandal in my mind.
“If that is the case, why is it only now we are having this interaction?” I ask, hands twisting in front of me. If I don’t keep them busy, I don’t trust I’ll keep them to myself. “I have spent many nights in this bed and haven’t seen the first hint of you since the ball.”
His neutral, curious expression shifts to a scowl that makes me stagger back.
The heat glowing from the cracks in his stony skin and the harsh set of his jaw make my gut twist with fear.
All at once I realize I have no idea what sort of character this demon is.
Everyone seems to have a different impression of him, and even though the Dealmaker assured me no harm would come to me, the Dealmaker isn’t here now.
I am very, very alone, and even if I weren’t, Xandril is the king.
He has the power to silence anyone who might try to speak on my behalf.
I thought the kind of power and influence the Judge wielded was terrifying, but he was still only a man.
He had only the drunkards and bullies to enforce his will. Xandril has armies.
“I…what I mean to say is, we are not wed. Not yet. I thought—”
“I can have alternate chambers prepared for you, if you’d like,” he says before I can finish my thought. Instantly, all my worries about being harmed or locked away are erased, the frantic spinning wheel of my mind slowing, quieting.
“Um… Yes. I would like that, thank you.” It’s just that easy? I don’t have to plead or argue or bargain?
Who would have thought that a demon king would be so…reasonable?
I don’t have a chance to properly word my gratitude before he’s out of the bed, every inch of him as nude as the day he was born, crossing the room to the door, giving orders to someone in the hallway while I just stare.
The spikes along the ridge of his shoulders continue to their blade, tapering off to another great expanse of muscled flesh.
But where his front is marked by only the occasional scar, evidence of a past battle maybe, his back is entirely covered, crisscrossed in puckered, silver scars.
More scars than skin, and the longer I look, the more I wonder what he must have endured to suffer that kind of damage.
I can’t push down the lump in my throat or the hot tears pricking at the corners of my eyes while my gaze lingers far longer than it should.
Who is this demon I’m betrothed to?
“This all seems like quite a lot, doesn’t it?” I ask Morwen as she arranges even more gowns, cloaks, coats, stockings, jewelry, slippers—all manner of fine fabrics and craftsmanship too exquisite to ever be worn—in the wardrobe of my new chambers.
Right across the hall from Xandril’s.
It’s not nearly enough distance for my liking, my skin tingling warm every time I glance toward the door and think of him just on the other side of his, but I can hardly protest more when he’s already given me exactly what I asked of him.
Morwen looks at me in that way she does that makes me feel like even more of an outsider than I already do. Head tilted to one side, her broad nose wrinkling while she tries to keep the purse from her lips.
“No. You are the king’s bloodsworn bride,” she says, as if that should explain everything.
“Yes, but I can only wear one gown at a time.” I stop just short of letting slip that I won’t be here for long.
“That changes nothing. Emerald Reach is one of the wealthier reaches—may not look like it much lately, but Farandir didn’t squander away everything. A king has certain expectations in how he presents himself, even conquering generals who’ve never seen a day of court.”
I frown, fingers exploring the fine weave of a heavy cloak, not sure why the way she said that rubs me the wrong way.
“And so I, too, have certain expectations?” I fill in, not trying to hide my distaste for the idea.
“You bear all the same status and authority that he does. Bloodsworn brides are highly esteemed, given more rights than a chosen bride. Once your Bonding is complete, everything that is the king’s will be yours, too. It’s part of the ritual, making you equals in every sense.”
Equals? A married couple?
I’ve never heard of such a thing. The closest thing one might find to equality would come only from the purest of love matches.
Most marriages are little more than a property exchange between households.
Serenity warned me that I’d find things much different in the demon realm than I’m used to, but this isn’t quite what I’d imagined.
This, I think I actually prefer. Not that it makes a bit of difference to me.
I’ll be back home by spring, but it does give me some hope for how I’ll be treated during my time here.
Morwen is just about finished moving all my things from Xandril’s chambers across the hall.
I get the sense she’s ready to dismiss herself, but I can’t spend another day by myself getting lost in this maze of a castle.
The only place I’ve been able to reliably find my way to is the kitchen, and I swear the path is never the same twice.
“Are there…responsibilities I should tend to?” I ask, somewhat hopefully. The lady of the house typically has an endless list of tasks, but do queens?
I still can’t believe I’m putting myself in that category. It feels like a dream I’m bound to wake up from at any moment.
“Responsibilities?” Morwen echoes.
“Duties. Tasks. What did the former queen do in her daily life?”
I get the full force of Morwen’s ‘you don’t belong here’ look, and bristle. It’s not my fault I don’t know things, she doesn’t have to be rude about it.
“The last time Crownwood had a queen, its roots were still breaking new ground. In most reaches, the queen would sit at the king’s side in court, host dinners and balls—”
“What do you mean in most reaches? Is Emerald different from the others?”
“Not Emerald. Its king. His Majesty has not seen fit to conduct any such events. With the exception of your Presentation,” she adds with a tone I can’t read.
Does she resent the lack of parties? Or is she glad the so-called conquering general isn’t putting himself in front of the public more than necessary?
Maybe something else altogether. There’s a lot more going on here than I first realized.
For one, Xandril hasn’t been king long. I should’ve figured as much when told the throne hasn’t accepted him, but it’s only now starting to sink in. He’s probably as clueless about a lot of this as I am.
“Do you know why? If it’s a matter of planning and organization, perhaps it’s a project I could take on.” If Morwen is to be my one source of information in this world, I want to get whatever I can.
The demoness presses her lips together, looking away to pick a speck of non-existent lint from a hanging cloak.
“It’s more than that, but I shouldn’t gossip about the king,” she says, carefully neutral.
I guess I won’t be getting much information out of her afterall. Maybe I just need to warm her up first.
“So, not the typical things, then,” I say, sitting dramatically on the edge of my bed. “What can I do to make myself useful? And don’t give me that look, please.”