Chapter 25 - Eryx
Eryx
Chelsea looks like a walking flower in these dark streets.
She’s perfect. Nightmare sighs. Look how they stare. They’ve never seen anything like her.
Neither have I.
Echo runs alongside us, and every once in a while Chelsea glances over at the shadow, making sure it’s safe.
Don’t you dare tell her that nothing can kill Echo, Nightmare warns. I want Chelsea to keep worrying about that dog. It’s adorable. And then maybe we can watch a movie later, put our head in her lap, let her play with our hair. Let us kiss her.
It’s going to be a while before she lets us do that, thanks to you.
What? Her magic was pulling me. And admit it, you liked what happened when our magics combined.
She grabbed our arm, Nightmare reminds me.
Her nails dug in. She needed us to steady her.
Do you remember how that felt? To be wanted and needed?
She didn’t look at you and see a scary king. She looked at you and saw Eryx.
Don’t twist this.
Before I can hear what Nightmare says, Chelsea points to the town square, where rows of stalls are set up. “Is that the market?”
“That’s it.”
Her eyes widen with happiness, and my chest softens. “It looks amazing.”
“It is.”
People—everyone—openly stare at us. They’re used to seeing me and keeping a wide, though respectful distance. But seeing me with someone? A woman in bright pink in this sea of gray turtlenecks and black trousers? Their new queen from the other side of the barrier?
That’s not shiny and new. That’s disruptive.
And it makes me smile.
Chelsea gapes as we approach. I’ve been here so many times it’s hard to see the place with fresh eyes, but I try.
Above the stalls is an arch that’s straight out of a medieval castle. The gray stone hangs overhead like flying buttresses on a cathedral, crisscrossing in a web to keep the rain and mist out.
A low fog rolls over the path, and sellers call out what they’re selling—from magical trinkets to rugs to exotic food.
We pass a woman selling scarves, and Chelsea runs her fingers down the black silk. “So beautiful.”
“It’s made of shadow silk,” the woman tells us. “Maybe His Highness will tell you about it.”
Chelsea lifts her brows. “Shadow silk?”
“From dream spiders,” I explain. “Very rare.”
“Rare and beautiful,” the old woman tells her with a toothless smile.
Chelsea pauses. Her gaze flicks from the old woman to the scarf, and though the scarf is beautiful, I don’t think that’s why she’s pausing.
It’s because she thinks the woman needs money. Buy it for Chelsea. Do it.
For once I agree with Nightmare.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t bring any—”
Before she can say the word money, I place several bills on the table. “Is this enough?”
The woman’s eyes widen. “More than, sir.”
“Keep the change.”
Chelsea shoots me an incredulous look. “Are you buying this?”
“It’s yours,” I tell her before turning away.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
We walk in silence, and I wonder where our earlier ease went. It feels like for all the progress we made this morning, while we were each dressing, we turned back inside ourselves and closed off to one another.
And I want that ease back.
We walk on, approaching a stall that’s heavy with rugs. Chelsea pauses to look at them, all the while fingering the shadow silk scarf that she wound around her wrist.
What I wouldn’t give to be that scarf, Nightmare murmurs.
I’m about to reply when a big man lumbers into the stall, slamming into it hard enough to make it pitch forward.
For a split second it balances on two legs.
Then it plunges down, straight toward Chelsea.
I grab her around the waist, lift her, and set her safely on the other side of me.
The stall hits the stones and breaks apart, sending pieces of wood scattering across the market.
“Sir, are you okay?” the owner asks.
I ignore him and focus on Chelsea. I’m still holding her, and she weighs nothing. She gazes up at me, her lips parted, her eyes brimming with fear, and then ever so slowly, the fear fades and is replaced with…
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“You’re welcome.”
And for a split second nothing else exists—not the market, not the stall and not Nightmare.
I’m acutely aware of how warm she is, how her curves align with my body, how every place we touch, her heat sinks into me.
My eyes drop to her lips—soft, slightly parted.
And when I gaze back up, she’s staring at my mouth.
Never have I wanted to kiss someone more than I do right now.
“You almost killed the new queen,” the stall owner shouts at the man who caused the disaster.
Chelsea drags her gaze from mine and looks at the man. “It’s okay. It was an accident.”
But no one hears her. What they hear instead is new queen.
Seconds later we’re surrounded by people pressing forward with gifts.
“A new necklace for the queen!”
“Take these spices!”
“And this hat!”
Chelsea's eyes go wide, overwhelmed. She looks up at me—help?—and I fight the urge to pull her closer, protect her from the sudden onslaught. But that's not what she needs. She needs to meet them.
Ever so slowly I release my hold on her. She slips from my arms, and as soon as she’s gone, my heart gives a painful thud.
No! Nightmare wails. Get her back! We almost had her! We were THIS CLOSE!
I know. Believe me, I know.
Chelsea turns to face the crowd, that bright smile on her face, and begins accepting gifts with grace and warmth. Thanking each person. Learning their names.
And I stand there, arms empty, watching her charm an entire market full of people who've been wary of their king for ten years.
She's magnificent.
It looks like I won’t have a revolt on my hands after all. One market visit and she's won them over.
She spots me and grabs me by the arm, yanking me to her side. “Thank you so much, everyone. Thank you.”
Someone hands her a bouquet of red roses, and another person presses clothing into her hands. Her arms are full, so I gently take the gifts and hold them.
She turns to me and smiles.
It feels like nothing will ever be the same.
And Nightmare is silent, which scares me even more.
Nightmare?
Nothing.
Are you there?
I'm here, it finally whispers. I'm just… I don't have words for this.
Neither do I.
This isn't want anymore. This is something else entirely. Something that feels perilously close to—
No. I'm not ready to name it yet.
Ten minutes later I’ve got so many gifts in my arms I can barely see where I’m going.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to hold something?” she asks.
“Definitely not.”
“Not even the candied apple?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s stuck somewhere between a dream catcher and a mink stole.”
She laughs—really laughs—and the sound makes carrying an entire market's worth of gifts completely worth it.
There it is, Nightmare whispers, finally breaking its silence. That's the sound we want to hear every day for the rest of our lives.
I’m not arguing.
By the time we return to the manor, we’re both smiling and I think that maybe, just maybe, Chelsea Thornrose is what this district needs.
Chelsea Nightshade, Nightmare corrects quietly.
She didn’t like it when I called her that before.
It’ll grow on her. Maybe.
But to me, she’s Chelsea Nightshade. She's not a Thornrose anymore.
My wife. My queen.
Perhaps she’s even mine.
But maybe more than that—she’s what I need. What I've always needed.
Even if I'm still too afraid to say it out loud.