Page 101 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

The light is low inside. The only window is an enormous circular moonroof set at the dome’s apex, tightly shuttered now against even a crack of sunlight.

A single wall torch casts a glow over an opulent stall. It’s the size of a small barn, with mosaic tilework in the shape of vines running along the floor. The walls are flawless white marble blocks, mortared with molten gold. A gilded tray rests on a marble column, holding golden grooming equipment: a bristled brush, hoof pick, mane comb. Not a speck of dust floats in the air here. I could eat off the mosaic floor.

“Basten?”

I turn sharply at the sound of a female voice. Sabine stands up from a stool, folding the storybook she had open in her lap and tucking it under one arm. Her eyes are wide as they dart between Vale and me. Cautious. Her plump lips part as though poised with a question.

Gods. I’ve fallen a thousand times. Off horses. Off rooftops. But nothing compares to the sheer weightless terror of falling in love with Sabine Darrow.

Tòrr and Myst look up from where they were happily munching honeyed oats, blinking at me in indignation forthe interruption. Was Sabine…reading stories to them? Is this something she did in Duren?

A pang snaps against my ribs because where a memory should be is only a void. Blackness. And it fuckingaches.

Tòrr lets out an irritated shriek, and Sabine taps his nose with a disapproving frown. Likewise, Myst gives his neck a nip. Chastised, he retaliates by stomping off to a marble water fountain. Myst clomps after him, chittering.

Whatever those two horses are arguing about, they sound like an old married couple.

“Tòrr is only grumpy because I was almost at the end,” Sabine says.

She toys with the book, running her nail over the leather binding. How is it possible for a woman to become more beautiful in five days? I’ve replayed our meeting in her bedroom a thousand times, and even in my fantasies, she was a sketched-in copy of this breathtaking original.

My breath grows ragged as I take in the curve of her jewel-encrusted dress along her waist and hips to fan out beneath her ass—a style that shows little skin but leaves nothing to the imagination.

Possessiveness flares in my chest. Her hair is loose other than a tiny fishtail braid circling her crown. Her creamy skin glows with health.

But her eyes?

Their grain of fear is the only thing to mar her perfection.

King Rachillon clears his throat heavily as he steps to the center of the stall, where the torchlight reflects off the shuttered moonroof and bathes his features in liquid gold.

“Three thousand years ago,” he begins, “I housed a monoceros here named Saph. She was a vicious thing.Completely feral. Ravenous for sunlight. She burned every village in a mile-long path from the Volkish coast to Norhelm. Tens of thousands died. Artain trapped her here—right on this spot—with the immortal lasso. With Meric and Samaur’s assistance, we constructed this stall around her in a single night. By the time Samaur made the sun rise again, its rays were useless to her. She was imprisoned here for one hundred years.”

“What is the point of caging a monoceros,” I ask, “if you do not intend to use its power?”

“In fact, I used her often.” Vale turns his head toward the moonroof. “I threw my enemies through that moonroof at midnight, then left it unshuttered. If they weren’t immediately stomped or impaled to death, Saph gleefully dispatched them upon the first ray of sunlight.”

“Lovely,” I deadpan, rubbing my beard.

“I’ll do the same thing to you, Lord Basten, if you betray me. I’m sure Tòrr could be convinced to end you.”

Sabine balls her hands, her gaze alternating between anger at her father and concern for me. Tightly, she says, “Don’t make threats, Father. You need Basten if you want to win Astagnon. Rian won’t bow to you. The King’s Council won’t accept any other candidate without royal blood.”

“No, Lord Basten needsme,” Vale growls. “There are other ways to win Astagnon. War will mean the deaths of millions, but so be it. Pick any man in Volkany to fuck—just not him.”

Sabine’s face drains of color.

Her lips pull back, ready to argue, but I lift a hand.

“Enough.” I can read Vale’s intentions from a mile away—this man craves war, and no bargains on our end will stop him. Only one thing can protect us now if Sabine and I wantto be together—our own army. “King Rachillon—Vale—whatever you want to be called. I brought you a monoceros. Your bloodtaster verified my heritage. You want to keep a chastity belt on your daughter? Fine. I came for a throne. So, tell me how to get it.”

Vale’s face is unreadable. I can’t tell if I convinced him about Sabine, but he does look intrigued by my boldness.

“We’ve been in contact with Kendan Valvere.” He goes to the iron door, testing to ensure it’s tightly closed against eavesdroppers. “We have a plan to overthrow King Rian. Beneveto will travel to Old Coros to assist in the coup. His priests enjoy diplomatic access to all of Hekkelveld Castle, which will get our spies in. They’ll capture Rian, and once he is imprisoned, Kendan will ensure that he’s tried by the King’s Council and found to be a pretender to the throne. A bloodtaster will testify that you are the rightful heir. Rian will spend the rest of his days in exile, and the throne will be yours.”

As Sabine hugs the storybook to her chest, she is the portrait of calmness. But inside? Her heartbeat raps fast as hummingbird wings.

“When will this supposed coup take place?” she asks steadily.

---