Page 98 of Creatures that Breathe

“Then why not talk? The male you were with”—her golden eyes flick over my face, searching for something—“what’s his deal? His fucking majesty wants to know.”

I lock my teeth. “It’s ‘His Grace’.” And no one in his employ would dare call him otherwise.

“Yeah, as if I’d ever fucking call him that.” She fake gags.

Definitely not a maid. Then what? She’s fit. Toned and languid, like a coiled snake. “Are you Queensguard?”

The title alone sends a splash of ice water down my spine, and her slight bow gives me tremors, gathers darkness at the edge of my vision. Queensguard, the mighty sword created to parry the Blackguard. Known for their unwavering loyalty, utter brutality, and triumph where the Kingsguard failed.

Draven is manic and ruled by emotion and false power, but the Queensguard is unfeeling steel, driven by cold fortitude and brutal orders.

Crap.

“How about we try again?” she suggests, extracting a jewel encrusted knife from the folds of her skirts. “Easy first, and then we’ll heat things up. I’ve got nowhere to be.”

I raise my hands, all innocence. “I’ll answer whatever you want. Just don’t hurt me.”

“Excellent.” A cocky smile. “Where are you?”

I frown. “I was blindfolded on the way here.”

“Guess then.”

“The royal palace.” It’s where Draven should have brought me. A castle in the walled off mountains of Arizona, nestled in red rock and sunlight, hidden by Hecate’s magic.

“No. You’re not.”

No, I’m not, but I’m surprised she’s willing to tell me. I feed her my best shocked face. “I’m not?”

Her eyebrows draw together, not in confusion, but disapproval. “The prince has taken you to his personal residence. You’d know that if you paid attention. Noticed how the days are shorter, how you don’t feel that miserable dry heat.”

“I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

“Who was the male in Copenhagen?”

“Draven Callas, sixth prince of the late—”

“Not the buffoon,” she snaps. “The one you were traipsing across Europe with. The one who was mowed down by his royal fuckwad’s army?” She peers at her reflection in the curve of her blade. “Tell me about him.”

My cheeks sour. “He’s nobody. I don’t even know his name.”

“Yet you were shacking up with him. How’d you meet?”

I don’t hesitate. Lies beget lies, so I hug close to the truth. “We met at a coffeeshop. He noticed me, I noticed him. We ended up sitting together. He didn’t speak English.”

“Ah, a carnal connection.” Her tone is dry as sand. “What’s he look like? Your dead Danish hero?”

Dead? The word hangs spikes on my heart. I swallow past a lump in my throat. Keep up the act. Numb, I mutter, “Bright green eyes, dark hair. He was a little taller than me.”

“Golden skin?”

I perk up. “You know him?”

“I wouldn’t know him if he was standing next to me,” she retorts, spinning her knife. “But I’m guessing he’s got dark eyes, blonde hair, and his skin is pale as death, and whoever you’re talking about, this Danish surfer boy you’re enamored with, he doesn’t exist.” She turns and thrusts the knife’s tip straight through the door’s lock, eyes gleaming with excitement. “But the other one. The one you’re trying to protect? Did he tell you about this?” She yanks down the prim collar of her uniform to reveal a thick black band around her throat.

My stomach flips.

She winks.

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