Page 34 of The Shadowbound King

Then again, maybe Mirella was simply as accomplished a liar as her father.

“I didn’t hurt you,” I said, watching her closely. “Walto Lornlark and I share a common ancestor, although dozens of generations separate him from the source of that lineage. The same blood runs in your veins.”

Her lips parted. For a second, she looked like she might be sick. “We’re related?”

“Distantly,” I said. “Your elven blood is so diluted by now that it might as well be water. But the magic of House Verdalis is extremely potent. It will always recognize its like. The shock will fade a little more each time we touch.”

Her jaw tightened. “That’s easily solved. Don’t touch me again.”

Grudging admiration swirled through me. Plenty of people—male or female—in her position would have already been ontheir knees, pleas for mercy on their lips. But she stood her ground.

Drawing my magic close, I melted into shadow. In a heartbeat, I took solid form in front of her, one hand wrapped around her collar.

At last, her bravado deserted her. She trembled, growing pale under her freckles.

“I don’t have to touch you to control you, Mirella,” I murmured. I lifted my free hand and held it within her range of vision. When she flicked her gaze to it, I let a tendril of shadow curl from my fingertips. Her eyes widened as it twisted slowly in the air, forming a phantom hand. With another push of magic, I sent the hand toward her. It grew more solid, knuckles and veins forming as it clasped her neck.

Another push of magic, and the thumb of my shadow hand pressed ever so slightly against her windpipe.

She whimpered, her breathing going shallow.

“I don’t even need a collar,” I said. “Either way, I’ll have your obedience.” A small push, and the thumb pressed harder. “Won’t I,” I added, making it a statement.

Silence stretched, the only sound in the chamber Mirella’s fluttery, uneven breaths.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“That was the right answer.” I released her collar as I withdrew my magic. The shadow hand dissolved like smoke.

Mirella stepped backward, one hand going to her throat.

Rane strode from the bedchamber in court clothes. He stopped, his expression inscrutable as he raked his gaze down Mirella’s dress.

“You have ten minutes to ready yourself for the feast,” I told her. Striding toward the bedchamber, I raised my voice. “I hope you rested well in your cage, my lady. You won’t get another opportunity for a while.”

Chapter

Nine

MIRELLA

The Great Hall looked a lot different now that it was full of immortals.

Leaves tumbled through the air. Knights stood on either side of the double doors, which were flung open to allow courtiers to come and go.

Andrin sat on the throne on the dais. Rane sat at his side, one black leather-clad leg slung over the other. They had both eaten the moment they sat down. No one had offered me food. Neither man had said anything about the violent way they’d entered the chamber earlier. Not that I’d expected them to. But Andrin’s unnatural growl lingered in my memory. He’d seemed…not himself.

He appeared fully in command now. Large and imposing, he presided over the gathering like a muscular, brightly colored beast of prey. The blond man from the courtyard occupied another chair on the dais. The carved wooden staff rested over his knees. Once again, he wore long robes open to show his trousers and embroidered jerkin. When I’d attempted to fill his cup, he’d placed his hand over the rim.

“I don’t partake.” His blue eyes had held mine for a long moment before he focused on the hall. “Save your efforts for the rest of the court.”

Effortswas an understatement. The pitcher grew heavier every time I filled it. Sweat dampened my hairline and trickled down the back of my chemise. The yellow gown, which had been such a welcome change from my dirt-stained dress from Purecliff, gleamed like a beacon under the chandeliers. No matter where I went, the vibrant color ensured I was the center of attention.

Lords and ladies lined the benches. The tables overflowed with food. Chatter filled the air, punctuated by frequent laughter. A gallery of musicians played lively music. According to the giant clock above the hearth, the feast was in its fourth hour.

Hunger gnawed at me as I hurried back and forth from the kitchen with a sweating pitcher in my hands. My feet ached, and pain stabbed at my lower back. I’d tread the same path between the tables so often, I half expected to see a rut worn into the stone the next time I left the kitchen.

But there was no rut—and no respite. Eyes followed me as I refilled glasses that seemed forever on the verge of empty. Some of the elves regarded me with a mix of tolerance and mild amusement. But most were aloof and unfriendly. One pair of eyes was the unfriendliest of all.

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