Page 16 of Wrath of the Never Queen

I will break them.

Chapter 7

They lead me to the dining room like a lamb to slaughter.

As I do when I walk past the leering men outside the public house, I keep my chin up and shoulders back. I track the route and create a mental map. The guards march behind me to deter me from running again. I notice the same guard I had punched before and give him a sweet smile. He scowls in return. The dent in his helmet remains.

The dining room itself is an enormous affair, befitting the ego of the king. The ceiling is high and the room is cavernous. Candles line the walls and hang from the beams running across the ceiling. Due to the sheer size of the room, they only cast a dim glow.

Despite its size, the place is bare except for a large portrait of the king looming on the far wall and a long, lonely table in the middle of the room. It is laden with all varieties of food—more than I have seen in one place before. There are fruits and vegetables which look familiar and it takes me a moment to realise I have only seen pictures of them in books. Snowberries and moonfruit. Food only grown in Swordstead. I stifle a reaction, not wanting the king to think I am impressed or curious about how he has acquired foreign food without official trade. None of the werewolf merchants who visit Mossgarde bring food. It is too sparse for them to spare.

Despite the ridiculous length of the table, only two people sit at it. The king sits at the head, and another man—I assume the prince—sits a few seats down. I am struck by the fact they are not sitting together, but it is quickly forgotten—the smell of the food overwhelms me. A heady mixture of salt and herbs, freshly cooked meat. Nothing like the food I have survived on since I was young. My empty stomach growls loudly, but only the king looks up when I arrive.

“Splendid.” He grins. He holds a leg of meat on the bone, and his plate is brimming with food. “Sit her next to her new master.”

Nausea swirls at his words. Even during my father and I’s nastiest arguments, he never spoke to me like this. Like apet.

But I cannot deny the food. My stomach pangs painfully, reminding me of my hunger. I flex my fingers to stop them from curling into fists and decide the food is worth more than thefight.

A guard pulls out a chair next to the prince and I sit down stiffly. I cast my eyes sideways at him but he does not acknowledge my presence, continuing with his meal as if nothing has happened. My blood boils.

“Girl.” The king tears a piece of croca meat from the bone with his teeth and speaks while chewing. “Eat.”

He gestures at the food. I exhale slowly, desperate to resist everything this vile man offers me. But my stomach cramps in protest, and the rumbles are loud enough for both men to hear. I need to survive so I can escape, and that requires food. Reluctantly, I begin filling my plate.

To my dismay, the food is as delicious as it looks. I fight hard to eat with dignity by chewing small mouthfuls instead of wolfing it down like my stomach demands. The king watches me carefully, but I pretend I do not notice him. I continue with my slow, polite forkfuls. My back remains ramrod straight, and my eyes stay on my plate. I do not want to make myself sick with more food than I have ever eaten. I do not want to give the king ammo against me by eating like a beast at his table.

“How wonderful,” he comments once I have had my fill and pushed the plate away. Neither he nor the prince spoke at all while we ate. “I do hope you enjoyed yourself. You willneed your strength when my son has his way with you. He does so enjoy breaking a woman’s spirit.”

The aftertaste of the food, which had been so pleasant before, turns sour in my mouth. I press my lips together in a thin line.

“And he will need his strength,” I say earnestly. “When I knock seven shades of shit out of him for daring to touch me.”

The king falls silent. The smile slips off his face and his eyes narrow.

“This attitude of yours was amusing at first, but I suggest you learn how to hold your tongue around your betters.”

I open my mouth to argue back, but I am interrupted by the prince.

“Forgive me, my king,” he says. I start, almost forgetting he was there. “But as Miss Shivani is now my property for the next six months, I will have her suitably punished.”

His tone is bored, as though punishing hispropertyis nothing more than a chore.

“I can punish her my own damn self,” the king growls, slamming his fist on the table hard enough to knock over a goblet. A servant immediately rushes out of the shadows to mop up the spilt wine.

“She is mine now, is she not?” the prince replies. His voice is even but his eyes are lowered and do not meet his father’s. “I will need to learn myself. Breaking spirits, as you say.”

It is subtle, but I hear the low undercurrent of sarcasm in his voice. My eyebrows furrow.

“Hm,” the king grunts and sits back. “Very well.”

“You are most gracious, my king.”

The prince stands up, his chair scraping behind him, and bows low.

“Miss Shivani,” he addresses me coldly and still refuses to look at me as though I am beneath him. “Come with me.”

His hand shoots out and grabs me by the upper arm, yanking me up. I squeak in surprise. His iron grip is painful and now we are standing, I realise how much broader and taller he is than me. Dread floods my body.

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