Page 19 of The Dead Saint

The Wolf’s hands slid around her waist, his chest warm against her back for only a few seconds before he lifted her up and dropped her from the horse without warning. Nox snorted, swinging his head in her direction, a glint of malicious intent in his eye.

“Stop.” Sorcha held up a finger, and the horse’s ears pricked forward, listening intently to her hard tone. “No more. No biting. No stomping at me. You’re done.”

One ear twitched backward and then forward again, and she took that as an acknowledgement.

“Are you a horse witch now?”

Sorcha turned, meeting Revenant’s gaze—her irritation flaring. Witch. As if it were an insult. The man watched her with more malice than she would have thought possible for a stranger. More hatred than she’d ever encountered. But he averted his gaze, eyes shifting down and away, when the Wolf dismounted behind her.

“Inside,” the Wolf said, drawing her attention and gesturing toward the stairs. “Now.”

He began to climb the stairs, expecting her to follow without more prompting. They knew who’d won in the woods that night after all. She didn’t have the backbone to kill him, but if she ran from him now, she wouldn’t get far, and he might kill her despite the prince’s orders.

* * *

“Does she speak?” The man looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her torn sleeve and knotted hair—likely finding her unexceptional. His lip curled in a sneer, the heavy gold loops in his ears trembling and catching the light thrown by the torches. “Will you need to translate?”

“She understands,” Adrian replied.

“Good. Speak when you are spoken to. Keep your answers short. Use ‘Your Highness’ when addressing the prince. Keep your eyes on the ground.” The steward stepped forward, grasping her arm and squeezed until her knees bent. “Kneel, temple girl. Honor the prince who keeps you alive.”

“Remove your hand.”

Sorcha and Adrian spoke at the same time, his voice overshadowing hers. She glanced at him with a quick, furtive look, and he could see the surprise in her face.

“You forget yourself, steward,” Adrian said.

The man released her at once, eyes glittering with malice. “I’m an extension of His Highness.”

“As am I.”

A gong sounded in the next room, deep and ominous, calling the courtiers to the throne room. The prince was ready for them. The steward gave her a tight smile, malice becoming pleasure.

Adrian kept his face impassive, a mask of nothing. It would be a mistake to let the steward, let alone the prince, see anything of his emotions. Even the anger could hurt him.

“This way,” the steward said, gesturing to the doors.

They were tall and skinny—from polished floor to high painted ceiling—overlaid with gold and set with precious stones. Incense burned nearby, a sweet, heavy scent that reminded him of childhood. Despite the torches and the lit braziers that flickered beyond the opening doors, shadows clung to the corners of the room, hiding in the carved rafters of the ceiling.

Adrian took her elbow, guiding her through the door, ready to feed her to the wolves.

* * *

The court glittered in the dim light—exquisite fabric rustling, gold chains clinking. The people moved, restless as a flock of birds pinned to the floor. The opulence was beyond anything Sorcha could have imagined.

The Golden Citadel had been wealthy, full of rich and powerful people, and the temple she’d grown up in had been one of the richest in the city. But here, each person wore velvet, silk, and lace, each covered in gold and faceted gems. The women wore elaborate headdresses. Some had veils covering their faces and lustrous pearls woven into their hair, while diamonds glinted on fingers, and others wore dark eye makeup accented with tiny, delicate beauty marks in the shape of a snake. Faces turned toward her, sharp and hungry. The room was full of staring eyes.

Sorcha hesitated in the doorway, not wanting to move forward, unsure about being presented here. The Wolf grabbed her upper arm and pulled her inside, marching her across the polished wooden floor. They were as smooth and reflective as marble, deep green in color with flecks of gold gleaming down the aisle. The Wolf’s boots clicked against the surface, her own soft shuffle following, as the court began to whisper.

Jeweled hands covered mouths; painted fans snapped open to hide the lower half of faces. Several different languages were being spoken, some she recognized, others completely foreign. She kept her eyes on the floor, refusing to acknowledge the whispered insults. At the end of the long room, the dark prince waited on a dais. There were two chairs, and he occupied the smaller of the two off to the side.

She wondered who was missing, who would have been in the place of honor.

The Wolf stopped her a few feet from the prince and kneeled, his leather creaking, head bowed. When she did not bend her knee, he pulled her sharply down beside him. She hit the floor with a thud, and sharp pain shot up her thighs.

“My prince?—”

From behind them, the steward spoke, but the prince held up a hand and the man went silent. His eyes—ravenous and rabid—were fixed on Sorcha, but he spoke to the Wolf.

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