Page 42 of A Dagger in the Ivy

“Idofucking understand. It’s in your blood, Your Highness.” He says the title with intense bitterness. “Pirate. Murderer. Monster. You can’t escape what you are.”

My brow lowers. Though I’ve had to kill during battle, I wouldn’t consider myself a murderer. “I’m none of those things. You can’t be so ignorant to believe I can’t be different.”

“Until I see otherwise, your words alone cannot sway me.”

My fists clench. “You can’t possibly believe I hold any responsibility for your mother’s death.”

He takes a step toward me, and it takes all of my resolve to stand firmly in place. “I can’t even fucking look at you without thinking about what your family did. The only thing holding me back from driving my blade through your heart is your betrothal to my brother. And I’m beginning to think I could overlook that and carry out the retribution my mother deserves.”

“Are you actually threatening me?”

His jaw tightens as he grinds his teeth. “Just watch your step, Princess.”

As the words hang in the air between us, I realize the futility of my efforts. Dante’s resolve remains unyielding, his warning a damning testament to the depths of his disdain. I pinch my lips together, highly aware of the pounding in my chest, and turn away, the weight of his judgment heavy upon my shoulders as I storm toward my room.

CHapter

Seventeen

My mother’s breaths are ragged as she holds a hand to her side, the blood seeping through her fingers. I spot the dagger in her grip.

“Mother?” My hands fly to my neck.

Her face is twisted, the pain evident on her beautiful features. “I’m sorry.” She comes closer. “I’m sorry.”

The pain of the dagger’s blade jolts me, and my scream cuts through the air.

The scream transforms into a wolf’s howl, and my eyes fly open.

I blink, taking in my surroundings as the howl brings me to the present. The tingle that always accompanies the nightmare transforms into a shiver that courses through my body. The chill of the night air seeps into my bones. My hands feel for any sign of a wound in my chest, but as usual, there is none. I wrap my arms around myself, feeling vulnerable in the darkness of the night, the moon casting an ethereal glow over the landscape around me.

I’m standing on the ivy-covered ground outside the castle walls, a feeling of disorientation washing over me as I struggle to make sense ofthe vicinity. Nearby, the looming silhouette of the forest beckons, its tangled branches reaching toward the sky like gnarled fingers. The moon hangs like a silver lantern in the night sky, and the cold earth bites at my bare feet.

How did I get so far? And how did I manage to make it past Sir Holden?

I look over my shoulder at Ivystone Citadel, lush with verdant flora that seems to thrive even under the cover of darkness. Even from here, I spot the ivy that winds its way up the ancient, stone walls, its tendrils casting sinuous shadows in the pale light. Between the castle and where I stand, flowers dot the landscape like scattered jewels, their delicate petals trembling in the cool, night breeze. Their sweet fragrance mingles with the earthy scent of the surrounding woods.

From the depths of the shadowy trees, a pair of glowing eyes watch me with an unsettling intensity. Despite the cold, my hands become clammy, a weakness in my legs keeping me from running. I’ve been in this predicament before, and I know better than to run from a wolf. There is an eerie calm as its predatory gaze remains, unwavering but devoid of aggression.

A second panic floods my veins. Had anyone seen me wandering from the castle? In spite of the chilly night air, a flush of embarrassment heats my cheeks as I realize the predicament I’ve found myself in. I need to get back to my room before anyone spots me, before the people of Hedera start questioning if I’m fit enough to be marrying their prince.

I take it step by step, as I’ve learned is best when escaping the vicinity of a wolf, and ignore the sharp stings to my bare feet as I tread through the rough terrain. My elbows are pressed into my sides, and my steps feel jerky and uncontrollable. I flinch at every noise that reaches my ears.

As I finally reach the outer walls of the castle, I spot the open gate I must have wandered through. It’s cloaked in shadow, but a movement in the darkness catches my eye. My breath gets stuck in my throat as my eyes adjust to the lack of light. Dante leans against the wall, his form barely visible in the moonlight. For a moment, our eyes meet, and I’m struckby the intensity of his gaze.

He warned me to watch my step. He said there was barely anything holding him back from killing me. And now I’ve wandered beyond the castle walls. It would be so easy for him to run his falchion through me and dispose of my body in the woods. The king would assume I ran away, or if my body was found, people might assume I’d been attacked by wolves. Not that a weapon wound looks like an animal bite, but I’m sure he could make it appear as if an animal had torn me apart. Terror sends a sharp pain to my chest, and I can feel my racing heart thundering in my neck.

At the same time, the soldier insists that I remain bold.

I hesitate, torn between the desire to confront him and the instinct to flee. But before I can utter a word, he turns away, disappearing into the night without so much as a backward glance. I’m so taken aback that I’m frozen in place, desperately trying to come to terms with his actions. I can only conclude that his loyalty to his brother must be strong.

I carefully continue on my way, staying silent and sticking to the shadows as much as I’m able. Once I’m back inside the castle, the warmth of the stone walls envelops me like a comforting embrace, banishing the chill that had settled into my bones. With each step, I can feel the familiar ache of fatigue tugging at my muscles, a reminder of the restless night I’ve endured.

Yet amidst the comforting hum of the castle’s interior, another sound reaches my ears—a soft, plaintive sobbing echoing through the dimly lit corridors. Instinctively, my steps falter, my heart quickening with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

The sound of crying, distant and muffled, dances on the edges of my consciousness, like a haunting melody that refuses to be ignored. For a fleeting moment, I entertain the idea of investigating further, of uncovering the source of this hidden sorrow. But then, Dante’s warning echoes in the recesses of my mind, a stark reminder of the consequences of my curiosity.

“It’s none of your concern.”

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