Chapter 57
Lilias
UNMISTAKABLY ROYAL
My eyes blink open slowly, and I shake my head. The world feels like it’s been wrapped in gauze. Thick, golden sunlight filters through the leaves above me, birds chatter in their secret musical languages, and for a moment, I wonder how I managed to fall asleep in the palace gardens.
But this isn’t the palace gardens. I frown, then try to sit up. The thin slip I’m wearing is damp and heavy, and the trees around me don’t look like they have ever met a gardener.
The world comes back to me slowly. Tents in the mountains. Rope around my wrists. Galloping away from the men who led me west, finding the mine—
My gut clenches like a fist. I close my eyes, but it’s no good. All I can see is Prince Syvan, blood pouring from his lips, his eyes burning with rage.
I stagger to my feet, limp into the bushes, and vomit. It’s thin and acrid, hardly more than water. I sink to my knees, then wipe my face with my sleeve.
You learn to carry it, Zarek told me last night. Dimly, I wonder if that’s true.
I rise slowly, feeling weak and shaky. The sun has already sunk behind the trees, turning the air golden.
The white stallion looks almost like a ghost as he grazes against the deep shadows of the woods.
He was such a nervous thing on our journey; I half expected him to run as soon as I took off his halter.
It’s strange to see him now, cropping the fresh grass at the edge of the stream, acting for all the world like a regular, confident stallion.
The knot in my chest loosens somewhat, and I walk slowly toward the horse, talking to him under my breath.
He lifts his head and swivels his ears toward me as I approach.
I’m expecting him to shy away, but he just watches me.
I hold out my hand, although I have nothing to offer, and he takes a few steps closer, his nostrils flaring.
“It’s okay,” I tell him in a low whisper. “You’re okay. No one is going to hurt you. Not ever again.”
He snorts and turns back to his grass. I wrap my arms around my chest and watch him as the shadows swell beneath the trees. He’s favoring his left hind leg slightly, which worries me. I had hoped Zarek would be able to ride him.
With that thought, I turn to the stallion’s saddle and the still, silent figure curled beside it. The man I married. The snake of Vsenrog.
I hold my breath as I approach him, although I can’t quite say why.
He’s turned away from me, with his bruised eye resting on his hand and his lips slightly parted.
His dark hair curls around his pale neck.
From this angle, the only evidence that Prince Syvan ever laid a hand on him is the thin split down his bottom lip. I inhale, and my breath catches.
Gods above, he’s beautiful. He looks more like a prince than Syvan, some inane part of my mind whispers.
Hells, he looks more like a prince than the portraits I’ve seen of Prince Laurance, the heir to Ethiria, whom I was supposed to marry.
Even here, curled on the forest floor in just a ragged pair of pants, Zarek is unmistakably royal.
I crouch down, reach for his shoulder, then hesitate. Warmth flickers inside my core, and my eyes trace his long, talented fingers, remembering what he did to me while the soldiers waited outside the door. I swallow hard, trying to ignore the rush of heat between my legs.
We should get moving. I’m not sure if I can find the old hunting cabin in the light, let alone after darkness falls. Besides, someone will come looking for us, won’t they?
But Zarek needs to rest. He’s injured, and he fell while we were trying to walk down the stream. We probably should have stopped well before then. Gods, what if he’s hurt somewhere on the inside? What if he’s carrying a secret injury I can’t see, something that could kill him?
I gasp, then rock back on my heels, pulling my hand away. Zarek winces. He opens his eyes and sits up so quickly that I almost fall backward. His hand drops to his waist, feeling for the dagger that’s no longer there.
And then he smiles. His shoulders drop, and despite the bruised, swollen eye, the split lip, and the dark marks across his chest, the curve of his lips still takes my breath away.
“Princess,” he says, his voice still thick with sleep. “How late is it?”
I shake my head as I try not to stare at his bare chest. There’s a smear of dried blood across his collarbone from the cut down his neck. That cut doesn’t look deep, thank the gods, but still, he was sleeping in the dirt.
“We should get moving,” Zarek says.
“No,” I say, still staring at his neck. “We need to wash that. It could get infected.”
Zarek looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
I stare right back, etiquette be damned.
Finally, he sighs, then drops his head. I frown at the patchwork of bruises covering his bare abdomen.
I have half a dozen salves that would help the pain and keep the swelling under control, but they’re all back in Vsenrog.
Assuming no one has destroyed my belongings, that is.
“Fine,” Zarek says. “I’ll wash it.”
“No,” I reply again. “Stay there. I’ll be right back.”
I pull my dagger from its sheath on my thigh and cut strips from the cleanest parts of the white stallion’s thick wool saddle blanket. Then I take them to the river, soak them, and bring them back to Zarek. He reaches for the damp fabric, but I ignore him.
I start at his throat. He swallows as I bring the cloth to his skin; I feel his pulse beat against my fingers. The warmth of his body seeps through the water-cooled fabric.
“Let me know if I hurt you,” I whisper.
He nods, and his throat contracts. Beads of water slide down his neck and trace paths across the dust spread over his chest. I try to ignore the needy pulse between my legs as I wipe grit and dried blood from his skin.
Finally, I lean back on my heels and toss the strips of saddle blanket to the side.
“Thank you,” Zarek says. His voice sounds thick and oddly formal. I turn away, my cheeks burning for reasons I can’t begin to understand.
Zarek clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice sounds almost normal.
“We really should be going,” he says, as if we’ve overstayed our welcome at a gala and he’s trying to break the news to me as gently as possible.
I nod, then turn to stare at the indigo sky. The first of the night’s stars dances above me. Something cold closes around my chest. We’re close to the old hunting camp, the one my father apparently gave to my mother as a wedding present.
The place where Anura said she’d meet my brother if everything went wrong.
And, hells, it’s hard for me to think of a single thing that hasn’t gone wrong since Anura and I had that conversation in the walled gardens of the Vsenrog palace.
I’ve been to that hunting camp dozens of times, yes, but always during the day. And I was a child.
I swallow hard. It doesn’t matter. Once we get into the valley, I’ll be able to find the camp.
I have to.