Chapter 11 A Secret for a Secret #2
“I was afraid of leaving my sister at our father’s mercy,” I continue. “But I handled that. Then I was afraid of dying—but I made peace with that, too.”
I hesitate.
“Now…” I meet his gaze. “I don’t know. Truly.”
“An honest answer,” he says. “I can respect that.”
“What can you tell me about the king?”
His eyes change. The light in them dims, shadowed by something deep and old. “Would you like to know how handsome he is?” he asks bluntly, almost spitefully. “How best to seduce him and win his heart?”
Caught off guard, I bark out a humorless laugh. “I’d rather eat dung for the rest of my life than seduce a sadistic bastard who sends monsters to steal brides from their homes and families.”
“That’s… graphic.” His faint grin reappears. Does he hate his own king? “But in all seriousness, I will need you to be more specific.”
“Why did he postpone the ball?”
He doesn’t answer right away. The breeze stirs the ivy at his back, scattering red petals between us. He watches them fall intently, as if they’re spelling out something only he can read.
“Perhaps he’s waiting for something,” he says finally, turning one of the petals over in his hands. The motion is slow and thoughtful, like he’s weighing the secret itself. “Whatever the reason, I suggest you take advantage of it while you can.”
A chill skates up my spine. “How?”
“Prepare,” he says simply, then hesitates, as if he’s said too much. “You’ll need to, if you intend to survive this place.”
My stomach tightens. I want to press further, to make him explain what he means by that, but he’s already smiling again, as if he’s replaced the truth with something easier to swallow.
Then he raises a brow and offers, “It’s been said the king is a fabulous lover.”
I gag dramatically. “How comforting.”
He chuckles. “He doesn’t have a wife. Hence, the Brides Trials.”
My eyes go wide. “Wait, so—”
“Careful, darling. That’s two answers already. You owe me.”
“Fine,” I grumble. “Ask away.”
“Do you dance? And what’s your favorite flower?”
I frown. “What kind of questions are those? You want to know wh—”
“Now, now,” he teases. “Don’t ask again unless you want to owe me another.”
I sigh. It’s no use fighting him. “No, I don’t dance. And roses are my favorite. Red or white.”
He grins, glancing down at the half-forgotten bloom still in my hand. “Looks like I guessed right, then.” Then he stands up and brushes the dirt from his knees. “And you’ll need to learn before the ball. You’re quite lucky it’s been delayed. I could show you, if you like.”
My traitorous little heart leaps at the suggestion. I know he means dancing, but the way he says “show you” feels like a promise of something else entirely.
I bury my face in the rose. “No thank you.”
“Are you sure? The king loves dancing. And your fellow brides would love nothing more than to watch you fail.”
“Thanks for the offer,” I say tightly, “but I’ll manage.”
“I think we’re even now,” he says, cocking one brow at me.
“Nope. You asked if I was sure. That’s a question.”
He laughs, surprised. “A tricky little Fire. Alright. Ask away, darling.”
The way he says it makes something in my chest flutter. I shake my head, flustered, unsure what to ask. When I still don’t speak after a moment, he gently reaches for me as if to pull me down to the ground.
“Come.”
I hesitate, and his smile fades.
“Please,” he says quietly. “You want to know the truth of this place?” The warmth drains from his tone, and what replaces it is heavier, wearier, like he’s asking if I’m ready to step past pretending.
I stand, taking his hand, and allow him to guide me to another part of the garden toward a small pond, where he kneels down in the grass at the water’s edge. I kneel down beside him, my knees bare on the cool earth. He takes my hand and places it on the soil at the bank’s edge.
I yelp. “It’s freezing!”
“It’s the curse.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer. Not with words.
Then, “Are you ready?”
I nod despite myself, and he presses my hand into the soil again. His touch sends warmth into the cold. His eyes shine—ancient, feral, tender.
“Close your eyes,” he whispers. “Reach past the frost. Tell me what you feel.”
I obey. Beneath my palm, the soil hums, alive and whispering. The air thickens, bringing with it the tang of iron and frost. Then the world shifts.
I see barn doors, frozen shut. I pry them open to find only a single white rose. I reach out and pluck it, pricking my finger on an unseen thorn. A droplet of blood falls, and the rose turns red. It turns darker and darker, then bursts into flame.
Images flash before my eyes. Dragons. Fire. Fields of death. A woman in white drowning in blood.
I gasp, snatching my hand back. But he’s already gone, leaving no footprints, no echo, only the ghost of his warmth quickly fading from my skin.
“My lady!” Marburianna appears behind me, as breathless as though she’s been searching for me for hours. “You must return to your room; it’s nearly dawn!”
“What…?” I glance up. The moon is gone, and sunrise stains the sky. I’ve lost hours—maybe the whole night.
I follow her, dazed, until I glance down at the rose in my hand. It’s black, shriveled, veined with dried crimson.