Page 13 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

“I am my shadow, and my shadow is me, but we each have a name,” he said. “We’d like to hurt this man for you, just a little. If you’d allow that.”

She swallowed, then nodded again.

Solis squeezed the guard’s neck, and he cried out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry, my lord! Please!” Beside the bucket of water was another container of the harsh soap in its powdered form. Solis used his shadowy tail to hoist the container. He dumped it over the guard’s head, then hit the bucket, banging it into the guard’s face.

“I wouldn’t mind if he hit him again,” Hrafn said.

Malcolm smiled at her. Solis hit him again.

Now release him,Malcolm commanded. Solis did so reluctantly.No, you can’t make him eat the soap.He knew Solis would ask because he wanted that too, but they’d caused enough trouble here.

“Hit her again, and I’ll . . .” Malcolm paused his threat to glance at his mate. Hrafn’s hands were in fighting fists at her side. “Hit her again,” he told the guard, “and I’ll lock you in here with her.”

The guard trembled. “I won’t touch her, my lord! I swear on my ancestors, I won’t!”

Malcolm left the cell and allowed the soap-covered guard to relock it. He felt the weight of Hrafn’s eyes as he turned down the cellblock. Walking away from her when she was so clearly in distress was like walking across burs barefoot.

He kept himself moving. If he stopped, even for a second, he might go back, and no one would be able to convince him to leave again. Not without her.

Chapter 5

Malcolm

Malcolm was not in the right mood for greeting his king. He felt neither reverent nor composed. He ambled down a gaslit corridor, his mind tired and full of fog. Malcolm entered the warden’s office overly aware of how poorly dressed he was, no jacket and now no waistcoat or neckcloth. He could have been a herdsman come in from the fields, he looked so plain.

Malcolm didn’t care for rules of appropriate dress most of the time, but at the moment he missed the authority they could have afforded him. Warden Barrows, a mortal, frowned at him around a thick brown mustache. Whatever he’d been saying to the king, it halted on his lips.

Across the desk from the warden, Harrow sat. The land steward paled as Malcolm entered.

“My lord.” Harrow bowed his head briskly. “I’ve just given my statement . . . If—if you’d like to hear it again . . .”

Night, King of the Lunar Court, sat in the shadows away from a window that let in the fading sunlight, his skin pale gray, silvery eyes slitted against the glare. Night was nocturnal, a Lunar fae with short antlers that curved back off his crown. He wore a midnight blue sash across a brocade coat, the lapel decorated in shiny crescent buttons. The scent of moon magic—a peppery incense—clung to him.

He didn’t look at all like the young man Malcolm had once taught swordplay, but hopefully those days of friendship had meant just as much to the king as they still did to Malcolm. He was hanging everything on sentiment, an emotion he normally held at such low value.

Night didn’t acknowledge the marquess at all as he crossed one long leg over the other. “Before the birds attacked the villagers, what did the witch say?” he commanded Harrow.

Harrow scratched a hand through his hair. His clothing was torn and rumpled. His coat was coated in road dust, like he’d ridden here hard and hadn’t bothered to brush down his clothing afterward. “We argued. I didn’t recognize her words, but they sounded like a threat, they did.”

Night leaned back in his chair, steepling slender fingers before his face. His lip was scarred in the corner, the broken skin a darker shade of gray. “Try,” he drawled.

“Erm . . .” Harrow glanced at the marquess, a plea in his eyes, a look Malcolm had no intention of responding to. The marquess sensed he wouldn’t like whatever his land steward was about to say. “Ravenar? Have must pack? Something close to that, Your Majesty.”

“Hrafnar hafa mus pak.” Olden rolled off Night’s tongue with clarity.

“What’s that mean, Your Majesty?” the warden asked.

Night glanced at the marquess then. A fleeting look Malcolm couldn’t read. “Birds take you.”

“She saidthatof all things right before the attack?” Barrows rapped his knuckles against the top of his desk. “That settles it then. The witch is guilty.”

Malcolm’s mouth parted, his tongue full of arguments.

Night cut in, “Not quite. There’s one last witness. You can go now, Mr. Harrow.” The king dismissed him with a tilt of his chin. The steward lumbered to his feet, spouting his thanks and mumbling farewells. He let himself out.

Malcolm’s legs felt like soup. He took the vacant chair, turning it to face his king, content to pretend the warden didn’t exist. “You came,” he breathed.

“I did.” The subtle curve in his lip pulled at the scar tissue at the top of his mouth. “Alone, as asked. Now here I sit, acting as a common constable, as curious as I am irritated.”

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