Chapter 14 #2
‘I don’t know. Is there any point? A slum rat and a future duke. Those romances don’t happen in real life. In Ylva’s books? Maybe.’
‘What are you on about?’ I object. ‘I’m a slum rat, and Kyor loves me.’
‘You were never a slum rat, Rosey,’ he says gently. ‘You were a stripped lady, and now you’re the gifted, the lost princess, and the heir to the Issen throne. It’s completely different.’
He’s wrong. One of us.
‘I don’t think so. Not at all.’
But his words unsettle me.
Child of Four. That’s what the Myrkr called me.
Was he right? A lost princess, a slum rat, Etta’s gifted, and … a Torailian abomination?
Maybe. But then maybe the Myrkr was just rambling from the pain of dying.
I go to pick up another spoonful of slimy riverweed, only to change my mind and put it down again.
Maybe I’ll feel hungrier in the morning.
The following day, I wake from my dreams with a vice-like pressure around my chest. William was at the forefront of the images that my mind conjured while I slept. William, covered in the Issen markings, standing in front of Korvane, awaiting his death blow.
By breakfast, the image has faded so greatly that I can barely still envision it, but the pressure remains and with it that echo of paralysing fear that I may not be quick enough to save my beloved brother.
The morning is spent breathing and creating snowflakes with Stefan – who decides we should head out of the city in the hope that a connection with the land might help, which it doesn’t – followed by a few quick words with Caz in the library before Toren comes to fetch me and take me to the king, where Uzra is once again waiting for Kyor.
Yet again, I suggest to Kyor that he take Caz or Benny with him to confirm the validity of what the knights are saying, but he refuses. Whether that’s because he already thinks he knows the answer or because he simply doesn’t want to hear the truth, I’m unsure.
And it’s not like we’ve spoken much either.
When I went to bed after talking with Ruben, Kyor was already asleep, and when I tried to mention it in bed this morning, he hastily silenced me with his magic between my thighs and his tongue in my mouth.
I hate how easily I relent and give in to his enticements, because although he’s more than forthcoming in supplying me with orgasms, it’s always his fingers, or tongue, or powers that bring me to climax.
And every time I’ve attempted to repay the favour, he’s returned his attention to me with such vigour that it’s been impossible to say no. Or speak at all, for that matter.
Sex should be bringing us together, but instead I’m beginning to suspect he’s using it to somehow give us distance. Distance I don’t want, but maybe he needs.
Tiredness is the only reason he’s given for not sliding inside me the way I desperately crave, and I suspect it’s half true, but I have a feeling I’m not the only one struggling to quiet my thoughts.
He’s lost here. A prince without a court, a commander without his soldiers.
And if making me writhe through wave after wave of pleasure gives him some semblance of control, then I’ll let him have it. For now.
As I wake on my third morning in Isthyr, one goal outweighs all others: discovering whether there is a way to stop the lacy markings spreading across the men’s faces.
Both Caz and Benny have had a look through the books and not found anything, and so asking one of the Issen has to be the quickest approach. The question is, which one?
I already made the slip-up of mentioning my siblings in front of Magnus, and given the whole successor issue, Stefan isn’t a candidate. Which leaves Toren. I just need to get him on his own and not when I’m with Kyor.
I consider missing breakfast and hunting the Issen down then – after all, I’ve barely felt hungry since we got here – but breakfast is one of the rare times I get to spend with the others, so I decide to head down to our private dining room and maybe force myself to eat a couple of mouthfuls of riverweed.
‘You coming?’ I ask Kyor.
‘Yes, just need to grab some water first,’ he says, moving into the bathroom. ‘I’ll catch you up.’
There’ll be water and glasses down in the dining room, and I contemplate saying as much, but I don’t.
‘Morning, Ylva,’ I say as I pass the chaperone, who appears to have started a new book.
Kyor catches up with me, and my shoulders ease a little.
‘Morning, Princess. Prince Kyor.’
Downstairs, the seating arrangement is the first thing that strikes me. For the first time since we arrived in Isthyr, Benny and Ruben are not sitting together. Is that good or bad?
‘Morning. How is everyone?’ I try to make it sound like I’m speaking generally, but Caz doesn’t even look up from the book she’s got her nose in.
‘I’m fine,’ Ruben says with faux calm.
‘Just fine here too,’ Benny says, sweating a little.
So something has happened. I go to offer Kyor a knowing smirk, but he’s already sitting down to his bowl of riverweed.
Deciding not to draw more attention to the pair of them – even though that is not a courtesy Benny ever offered me in the Retterheld – I take a seat.
This time, merely placing my hands on the table is enough to make a pain shoot through them, and I wince.
‘Are they hurting again?’ Ruben asks.
I crinkle my nose.