Chapter 12
Zarek
PUNISHMENT
Fuck me. Everything hurts.
I open my eyes to glare at the rising sun as it spills through the windows of the feast hall. There’s an army stomping on the inside of my skull, my mouth tastes like something died in it, and apparently, I just spent my wedding night passed out on the floor of the feast hall.
And my wife spent it drugged out of her mind. Lovely.
She wasn’t drugged at the feast. There’s no way she could have been drugged and taken that bite of cake from the end of my sword, a gesture so blatantly sexual I have the bad feeling it’s going to be a recurring theme in my jack-off fantasies for the rest of my life.
So she was saving the drugs for the marital bed.
I sigh, then force myself to my feet. My head howls in protest.
She might be addicted. Something twists in my chest as I remember the scent of vomit and old hay, sun slanting through the open window—
Shit. That would explain why her kingdom was so happy to hand her off to Vsenrog, although Petrys probably would have heard if she had any bad habits like that. You can’t exactly hide addiction, especially not in a castle full of servants with wagging tongues.
I stagger toward the door, trying to avoid the patches of obnoxiously bright sunlight as they fall across the polished floor. There are a few half-empty wine glasses still on the table. I grab one and down it, which helps take the edge off the hammer beating on the inside of my temples.
“Zarek.”
I wipe my mouth on my sleeve, then look up. Mortimyr, one of King Malrik’s personal attendants, is watching me with his customary expression of distaste, as if I were something particularly offensive that crawled up from the dungeons.
“How can I be of service?” I reply with a grin.
“His Highness wishes to see you,” Mortimyr replies. Something in his tone suggests the faintest whiff of disapproval for the king’s choice of company.
Good. I love pissing this guy off.
“I’ll see him as soon as I’m decent,” I reply.
The palace bathhouse isn’t quite as comfortable as the private bathing room in my quarters, but I don’t want to go back to my private room. Not ever, if I’m being honest, and especially not when I stink like a distillery.
Mortimyr’s frown deepens slightly. “He wishes to see you now,” he replies.
I shrug and smile, but something cold claws through the haze of my hangover. I pushed things too far last night, didn’t I? No one outshines the king, and I dared to flaunt their fear of me without turning it back to serve Malrik. Did I really think public humiliation would be my only punishment?
My footsteps echo through the feast hall as I stalk after Mortimyr. It’s still damned early, and the few servants I see scurrying about the place look as hungover as I feel. Mortimyr leads me to one of the king’s lesser rooms, then opens the door slowly.
King Malrik leans back in his chair and squints at me, a mug of steaming willow bark tea in his hand.
“Ah,” he says, with a vague undertone of disappointment. “Come in.”
He waves at one of the empty chairs. I sit. There’s an entire feast spread out before him, but it looks like the king hasn’t touched it. My stomach makes a sad little grumble, reminding me that I hardly ate anything yesterday.
Malrik stares at me. He does not offer me anything.
“Such a shame your new father-in-law is in such ill health,” the king announces.
I blink. This is the first I’ve heard anything about the king of Marion’s health, but I know better than to object.
“I’m sure he was sorry to miss the wedding,” Malrik finishes.
I swallow. My mouth still tastes awful.
“I’m sure he was,” I reply.
The king of Marion missed his daughter’s wedding because it was scheduled two godsdamned weeks after he agreed to the betrothal, of course. But it sounds like Malrik is once again bending the truth to his will. Yet another aspect of royal life I should be used to by now.
“It was a lovely ceremony,” I offer.
Malrik snorts. “It got the job done.”
With that, he finishes his tea and bangs the mug down on the table. I try not to wince at the smack of ceramic against wood.
“You’re going east,” he announces.
I raise my eyebrow. My head throbs.
“Tell Syvan it’s time to come home,” Malrik finishes.
I stare at the table. It’s beautifully polished, this table, and the plates of bacon, sausages, tiny roasted potatoes, and delicately buttered toast spread before the king are truly lovely.
The back of my throat burns. I force myself to smile.
“Yes, sire,” I reply.
Syvan is Malrik’s second son. He inherited all of his father’s ruthless cunning and none of his charisma. He’s been working with the eastern battalion, where he’s almost universally despised for his cruelty.
And so, my punishment continues. Well, shit. I can’t say I didn’t know it was coming.
“When shall I depart?” I ask.
Malrik laughs. It’s hard and sharp, like a dagger.
“Now,” he replies.
My mouth falls open. I close it. Malrik smiles at me like a fox smiles at a mouse.
“I hope you and your wife had a memorable night together,” he says, with a grin that tells me he knows perfectly well where I spent last night.
Gods, I feel sick. I force myself to come to my feet. My head feels like it’s being crushed in a vise.
“I’ll bid her farewell and be on my way,” I tell him, with a bow.
“You do that,” the king replies.
He waves his hand over his breakfast, and I am dismissed.
I walk to the kitchen, where I’m far from the first to beg a mug of willow bark tea from the harried cook, then through the gardens. By the time I work up the nerve to approach my quarters, the sun has climbed above the garden walls and the air holds the faintest promise of spring.
The door to my new quarters is slightly ajar. I wait in the hallway until a servant appears, holding the bedsheet with its reddish-brown bloodstain proudly displayed. Hussen, the priest who tied me to the princess of Marion for the rest of my life, emerges next.
He nods as he sees me. It’s a secret, proud sort of nod, like he’s congratulating me on a job well done. Hells, he was probably the one watching us last night from the secret passage behind the mirror. I clench my jaw against the bile rising in the back of my throat.
At least they’ll have no reason to send Lilias back to Marion now. Hussen will bring that bloody sheet to King Malrik as proof of my wife’s ruined virginity, and that should outweigh any secret whispers about her damned tutor.
Hussen leaves, slamming the door closed behind him. I stand in the empty hallway, alone with the dull throb of my hangover, until the desire to punch something recedes.