Page 6 of Vow of the Shadow King

She takes one look at the bundle in my arms, and her stone-hard expression breaks into utter shock. “What is this?” she cries and leaps forward, reaching out as though to take my burden from me.

I pivot neatly to avoid her grasp, then continue swiftly around her into the palace. “The prisoner has escaped her cell,” I bark over my shoulder. “Someone needs to find out how.Now.”

Hael ducks down a side passage to sound a deep-belliedzinsboghorn. This brings other members of her guard scurrying to our location. Too soon, I’m surrounded by gawking faces. Which is not ideal. The last thing I need is for rumor to spread that I was seen cradling in my arms the very bride I’d nearly had publicly beheaded mere hours ago.

“Make way,” I growl, and they part before me. Hael issues crisp orders for some of them to hasten to the holding cell and speak to the guard on duty, for others to search the nearby passages for possible accomplices. Then she trails after me, blurting the occasional, “Where are you taking her?” or “What are you planning?”

I don’t have any answers. So I hold my tongue and continue forward. Ignoring the stares of any onlookers I pass, I storm through the palace halls. I don’t return to the holding cell. Instead, my feet carry me to the royal wing and the Queen’s Apartment. Hael, finally realizing where I’m headed, rushes ahead of me and opens the door.

“Get out of my way,” I snarl, and she leaps back. I bear Faraine into the bridal chamber, lay her down on the soft bed. Blood from her throat wound has soaked into the askew neckline of her gown and left a stain on my shirt. I touch the cut again and grimace, then shift my gaze back to her face. So stern, so lined with pain. Gently, I brush a strand of hair back from her forehead. She stirs slightly, turns her face a little toward me. My breath catches.

“Your Majesty?” Hael enters the room, bearing a pitcher, bowl, and cloths. She sets them down on the washstand close by. “Your Majesty, allow me to—”

I push her hand aside, take one of the cloths, and dip it in the water. Carefully, I dab at Faraine’s throat. “Send someone for Madame Ar,” I say without looking Hael’s way. She darts from the chamber. I hear her gruff voice demanding the palace healer be brought to the Queen’s Apartment at once. She returns a moment later and starts to say something, but I cut her off: “Out, Captain.”

Though I don’t look back, I feel the tension in the air as she freezes. Then, tentatively: “Your Majesty—”

I whip my head around, fix her with a level stare. “Did I not make myself clear?”

For a moment, the expression in her face is agonized enough to almost make me regret my words. Then her features harden. She salutes with her big, boulder-like right hand, steps from the room, and pulls the door shut behind her.

So. I am alone with Faraine. With my bride.

I focus on bathing the cut, on wiping away the red stain from her neck. After a moment’s pause, I continue to wipe her soft breast as well, careful not to let my fingers so much as brush her skin. The wound itself is blessedly small. Certainly not deep enough to require stitches. If Faraine is lucky, she’ll end up with only the faintest scar.

My gaze lingers longer than it should. I can’t seem to help myself. The truth is, I’d almost forgotten what she looked like. I’d known her for so short a time. Other than our memorable meeting and our ride together beneath the terrifyingly open sky, I only encountered her a handful of occasions in her father’s house. I’d spent more time with her sister, Ilsevel, with whom I’d danced each night.

But somehow, those moments with Faraine had left a greater impact. She spoke with both earnestness and humor. Always a little reserved, which lent her an intriguing air of mystery. And despite her reserve, she was warm. Her soul was so bright, it drew me like anolkto a moonfire lantern. I wasn’t foolish enough to think Ilovedher. There was something about her, however . . . something which led me to think . . . to wonder . . . to hope . . .

Not that it mattered. She’d made her position clear: If I cared about my people and my kingdom, it was her sister to whom I should be making my proposals. I had honored her insight, set my course, and never once looked back. I bade her farewell and thought I would never see her again. I’d made my peace with the way things were, the way things had to be.

Now I sit on the edge of our marriage bed, gazing down at the unconscious woman before me. Her fair brow, tense with pain. Her straight nose with its round little tip. Her full, soft lips, pressed together in a hard line. Giving into impulse, I reach out and let my finger trail down the curve of her cheek, round my knuckle along the line of her jaw. A mistake. Her skin is soft as silk. Just that mere touch is enough to strike fire in my soul.

Scarcely aware of what I do, I clench my fist and press it into the pillow beside her face. Slowly, I lean toward her, lower my face to hers until mere inches separate us. Her lips part. Do I imagine it, or does she tilt her chin up, as though in invitation? Her chest rises and falls beneath me even as her breath hitches in her slender throat.

What am I to do with this cavernous need? This ache in my core? I feel like a man parched to the brink of death who lays eyes at last on the cool, clear stream. Surely one touch should be enough to soothe this thirst. One little brush of my lips against hers. Is that too much to ask?

I could take it. Take the relief I desire. She could not stop me. The barest inclination of my head, and we would be joined once more. Only this time, that joining would be so much fuller, so much richer. Because this time, I would know it was Faraine I kissed.

Faraine.

Faraine.

Sudden commotion erupts in the outer chamber. “Get out of my way, get out of my way!” a familiar voice barks. “If the king must drag me from my good work, you might as well let me through.”

I push back from the bed, stand, retreat by several paces. Gods, what came over me? Maybe I truly am bewitched. Hastily, I run my hands through my hair, composing my face as I turn. The door opens. Madame Ar steps into the room, her healer’s bag in one hand. She shoots me a withering look. “Well, Vor? What’s so urgent that you’ll set a poor old woman scampering clear across the palace at your beck and call?”

I bite back a retort. Ar is certainly old, but one would never know it to look at her. Her stout trolde body bears the age of centuries with ease. She’s one of the few people in the palace who dares use my given name, with or without permission.

“I need you to take a look at her,” I say and sweep a hand to indicate the figure on the bed. “Something is wrong. I don’t know what.”

“Ah!” Ar’s eyes light up suddenly. Her face creases in an unexpectedly delighted smile. “I’d forgotten! Your new bride is a human! How fascinating.”

“She’s not my bride,” I growl.

The old healer ignores me, sets her bag aside, and begins a thorough inspection of the princess, muttering to herself as she goes. I stand close by, until finally Ar shoots me a withering stare. “You’re hovering,” she snaps, and makes a shooing motion with one hand. “It’s distracting. Be off with you! I’ll let you know when you’re welcome back in.”

I open my mouth to protest, to remind her that I am king. But it’s not as though Ar would pay any attention.

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