Page 14 of A Vow of Blood and Tears

She slid over the seat, pushing aside the voluminous crimson skirts with a twist of her mouth, and managed to keep her hesitation to a single second before she put her hand in mine.

I wondered if I imagined that she shuddered.

The size of her hand was a marvel as I helped her from the carriage. It was… ludicrous. With her palm fully pressed to mine, her fingertips barely extended to the first joints of my fingers.

How could I be married to this girl, when I might so easily crush her? In a single moment without control, it would be as easy as blinking to end her life.

Cirrien stepped onto the streets of Thornvale, looking around with open curiosity at the stone houses crammed together, the briars for which the town had been named climbing over them in tumbles of thick green leaves.

She pulled her hand from mine, clutching her skirts to keep them from the muddy stones underfoot. I clenched my hand at my side, unable to feel offended at her need for distance, but the warmth of her palm still burned against my skin like a coal.

Five guards had been posted outside the inn, and Cirrien glanced at them as I led her to the door, her lips pressed flat.

The Eldest Sister should have explained this to her before our marriage. That as the Lady of the Rift, she was now not only one of the eight most powerful people in Veladar—but that a target as red as blood had been painted right between her shoulders.

Our precautions were not due to an overabundance of hysteria.

Andrus—the Lord of the Vale, the first of the fiends to take a human wife and uphold his end of the Accords—had lost his initial arranged bride on her journey to Stagpoint Castle.

The carriage was found pulverized, the girl herself strung from a tree by her own guts, her body hollowed out.

No natural wolf packs roamed the Vale these days. They had been annihilated in one furious night, giving the wargs nowhere to hide in his territory.

The only obvious solution after that was for each Lord to retrieve the chosen women in person, with precautions and checkpoints along every step of the journey. Andrus still had not forgiven himself for the senseless loss of the girl’s life. He never would.

The interior of the inn was filled with warm light, the nose-burning scent of lye soap and wood polish still hanging in the air. The innkeeper smiled at Cirrien, sketching a sort of curtsy for her. “My Lady, it is an honor to provide you shelter for the night.”

Cirrien smiled back, touching her hand over her heart with a nod to the innkeeper. She made a few quick signs with her hands, and the innkeeper’s eyes widened a fraction.

“I…oh. Well.” The woman hesitated, then led Cirrien down a short hall to a solid oak door, three inches thick according to Wyn’s specifications. The bloodwitch had already drawn a blood sigil on the wood, burning with a faint crimson light. “This is the room for you and the Lord to share. Please, let me know if you need anything.”

Cirrien’s smile had grown a touch stiff at the woman’s reaction to her lack of speech, but she touched the innkeeper’s hand, then pressed a hand to her heart again before pushing the door open.

I followed her inside, gently shooing the innkeeper away—not that the woman wanted to linger with me here.

Inside the room, there was one large bed, covered with tidy white linens, a reading chair and a small desk, and a wardrobe.

“The bloodwards will prevent intrusion.” I pushed aside the thick drapes to check the window, but I shouldn’t have doubted Wyn. A sigil had been drawn on each pane of glass. “They’re not a perfect shield, but they’ll provide warning if anyone tries to break through.”

Cirrien immediately sat in the chair, spreading her skirts in a froth around her, and began rifling through the drawers of the desk. When she failed to find what she was looking for, she exhaled a hissing breath, the first and only sound I’d heard her make, her eyes pinched shut with frustration.

“I will bring you paper.”

A beat passed. Her eyes opened; she gazed at me over her shoulder, those green eyes lighting up, then extended a single finger to the bare wood of the desk and began to slowly shape large letters, using the common Veladari alphabet and pausing between words. She glanced up at me after each word had been formed.

P-A-P-E-R. I-S. E-X-P-E-N-S-I-V-E.

I couldn’t stop the upward twitch of my lips, though my smile was as frightful as my scowls. “You are soon to be the Lady of the Rift. Paper is not too expensive for you.”

S-L-A-T-E. W-I-L-L. D-O.

“You will be my wife tomorrow, and you will have paper. I’ll have Wyn stay here with you while I’m gone.”

At that, Cirrien shook her head, her crimson hair loosening from its braid and spilling down her back in waves. The motion sent her fragrance spilling through the air, the sweet roses and musk of skin beneath it.

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