CHAPTER SEVEN
EMMERY
Much to Emmery’s displeasure, Destonne found her in the garden later that evening after they arrived back in Asaella.
The stolen, and now nearly empty, bottle of wine clutched in her hand had gone down smooth as water and easier than air.
She scratched at the new restraints, those iridescent markings that mocked her, and sighed.
Maybe she would burst through these later too.
As he approached, each of the King's steps emitted that obnoxious grace she’d grown to loathe. Emmery eyed the white roses and recalled the day he’d offered her one. It now laid preserved between one of her books back in her chamber. Pathetic.
He stopped a few paces away and leaned against a nearby tree.
His arms folded over his chest like he was frustrated with her while she fell into the memory of how he had miraculously pulled her from her panic after the dark abyss had happily swallowed her.
She couldn’t explain how he’d done it and prayed he wouldn’t ask.
“Are you done feeling sorry for yourself?” he drawled.
His question spiked fresh anger into her chest, but she huffed a tired breath, and replied, “Are you done asking foolish questions?”
Emmery tipped back the last drop of wine, savoured the rich oaky flavour on her tongue, then tossed the bottle aside.
The King winced as it landed with a thud and she reached behind her to retrieve another. “I see you’re making good use of my wine cellar.” He eyed her swaying form. “How much have you had to drink?”
Flames lit in her eyes. “Not enough if you plan to stay.”
He paused and studied her white-knuckled grip on the bottle.
The silence stretched between them before he said in a softer voice, “I know you told Brennen you wanted to be alone but—” He shifted like his body ached then sank down beside her and stretched his long legs.
Maybe the ride wore on him too. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at taking orders. ”
The muscles in his neck strained, as if he were in pain, but his face gave nothing away. As always, he was dressed in a soft black shirt, the sleeves cuffed at his elbows, his scarred forearms on display.
“You don’t like wearing colour, do you?” she observed.
“That’s an odd way of saying I look handsome in black.”
“Will they kick you out of the villain’s guild if you don’t?”
Destonne snorted and fiddled with his cuff. The top two buttons on his shirt were open, a vee of scarred skin on display. Emmery averted her gaze to look literally anywhere else. At that moment, Aera rose from her lap, flapped her wings playfully, then soared into the tree across from them.
“For fashion then?” she suggested. “To solidify your hardened, terrifying image?”
He turned to her, a challenge in his eyes. “Why don’t we make a deal?”
She narrowed her gaze. “I told you, I don’t make deals with villains.”
“And yet”—he flashed her the thorn-strangled rose on his palm—“here we are.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “You like challenges, don’t you?”
Too exhausted to tamp down her curiosity, she gave a hesitant nod.
“Let’s play a game.” He pulled a coin from his pocket then twirled it between his perfectly manicured fingers. “It’s called saber or serpent.”
Emmery’s brows pulled together. “What in the world is a saber?”
He hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose they don’t exist in the mortal lands. They’re known as noble truth tellers in legend. They look like a lion with three tails and long fangs. They were rumoured to be Deimos’s dearest pets.”
Destonne pressed the coin into her palm, careful not to touch her.
It was a unique piece of silver, about the same size as mortal currency but with six blunt, squared edges and a playful shimmer of gold beneath the surface.
On each side was a different creature, the saber with a cavae and the serpent a zvezda.
The saber, she now realized, was on Asaella’s crest. Noble truth tellers—what a joke that was.
“How do I play?” she asked.
“It’s simple. Ask a question and the other person flips.
If it lands saber side up, you must answer honestly.
If it lands on the serpent, you may tell a truth or lie.
” He studied her face like he shucked away her carefully crafted layers.
“I know what you’re thinking, and it’s a game of integrity.
So, no cheating. You can’t just lie your way through it. That would be dishonest.”
Yet he would never know if she did. What a strange game to play with the King of Lies. Surely he would shape his answers to fit whatever agenda he had for this conversation.
“You first.” She pressed the coin back into his hand. “Explain the black ensemble.”
Destonne flipped and caught it in his fist. Serpent.
She glowered at the coin, convinced he rigged the game somehow.
“Black hides the blood,” he drawled.
The answer came so easily, Emmery narrowed her eyes. “That felt honest.”
“Did it? Hmmm.” The corner of his lips twitched as he flipped the coin into her waiting hand. “Your turn. What upset you?”
Before she could overthink it, she flicked it into the air, and gritted her teeth as it landed, sure the slice of metal would betray her.
Saber. Damn it.
Emmery’s chest tightened. This was an admission she wasn’t ready to make, a weakness she didn’t want to reveal, especially to him. So she spouted the first thing that came to mind. “It was something Reize said.”
“That’s hardly an answer.” He studied her with the intensity of a treasure hunter uncovering a long-lost map to riches.
She squirmed under his gaze. “If you didn’t like my answer, maybe you should have asked a better question. And I don’t see why you care. It’s of no consequence to you.”
Destonne’s chest inflated with air before he turned toward her. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me,” he said on a long sigh.
As his eyes roamed over her face, Emmery’s breath caught in her throat. It was as if the King had the ability to lure secrets from her, unpeel and unravel her, until she was naked and vulnerable. Bared for him to scrutinize. But she wouldn’t let him. “I never said I wanted your help.”
With the silly piece of metal fisted in her hand, Emmery thrust it toward him.
He caught her wrist. Their eyes locked and her heart tripped, tumbled, and the world quieted as she waited to see exactly what he would do.
How he would direct this game between them.
And if she hadn’t been paying attention, she might have missed the smallest hitch in his breath, too.
With both hands he cradled her fist like some rare jewel, and his thumb gently pried back her fingers, one by one, taking his time, tracing them from knuckle to tip, and with each graze, the knot in her chest loosened.
Her hand became a clam yawning open so he could claim the priceless pearl inside.
The King had nice hands, she’d noticed as much—elegant yet worn, gentle yet insistent, strong yet delicate. A contradiction in every way. And she hated it.
Emmery’s stomach warmed, that heat spread up her chest and neck to her cheeks and he seemed to see the effect it had on her. For someone to touch her. It sucked the willpower from her body and her wine drunk haze dizzied her head, muddling her thoughts.
After he plucked the coin from her grip, he didn’t release her. “Please,” he said, his voice low, a little rough. “I’m asking nicely.”
Unwillingly, Emmery turned to clay in his palms—his to form, mould, and manipulate.
“You’ll laugh.” The words came out more breathless than she wanted to acknowledge
“I won’t. You have my word.” His thumb traced their pactum scar and she shivered, then squeezed her eyes closed. “Like it or not, we’re in this together. We’re stuck with each other until we see this through.”
Her traitorous heart pounded, her head along with it. Every moment he held her, the strength fled her body, and she wilted like some over-watered flower. Emmery snatched her hand away and cleared her throat. “We have to access the cave by water.”
“So?”
“It would require swimming.”
Destonne ushered her on. “And?”
“And I—” She swallowed though the words stuck in her dry mouth. “Well, I … can’t swim.”
A beat passed. Then another.
The King merely nodded. Emmery stared at him. Waited for something, anything, but he gave her nothing. She didn’t understand that smart expression on his face, that superiority.
Her brows drew together as the moment trickled in, bit by bit.
No. He was playing with her.
The realization struck her like a whip and lashed any remaining self-respect clean off the bone. “You knew,” she breathed, the accusation filled with fire. “You fucking knew. You colossal asshole.” And he made her admit it aloud, tear that fear free, and offer it on a silver platter.
“But don’t you feel better now? Admitting it aloud is the first step. Congratulations.”
No, she wanted to claw his eyes out of his ridiculous pretty face. Emmery opened her mouth to reply, to rip him apart or—
“Wait. How did you know I couldn’t swim?”
“I have my sources.” The corner of his mouth curled up into a crooked smirk and it was the closest thing to a smile she’d ever seen grace his face. “It’s really not a problem. I could always compel you into the water.”
Emmery’s jaw clenched and she stared daggers at Destonne, debating whether it would be worth bursting through these restraints to set his stupid hair on fire. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “You intimidate me more than I care to admit. Not sure I want to test your boundaries, though it’s far too fun seeing that fire in your eyes. Like toying with a lit match over a vat of oil.”
Destonne waited for a reaction, but her thoughts had taken her far away. After everything with Maela, water had been her greatest weakness, and it was like the gods were punishing her by placing such a cruel obstacle between her and her memories. Between her and the prophecy. Between her and Shade.
“I don’t know what to do.” The admission weighed her down, and she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. It provided no relief.