Page 193 of The Ashes and the Star-Cursed King

Mische’s mouth remained open for a moment, her half-spoken words dying on her lips, before she closed it.

“Alright.”

Alright.

This fucking girl. Mother help me.

“What?” she said. “You’re angry. I know. It’s a big political problem and—”

I scoffed. Actually scoffed, because what the fuck else was I supposed to say?

“I’m not mad about the prince.”

“Well, obviously you’re mad. So what the hell are you mad about?”

“Something is wrong with you and you won’t tell me what it is.”

It was more direct than I should have been. Maybe I was worn down after months of trying to help someone who hadn’t wanted to be helped. Between Mische and Oraya, it was exhausting.

She and I stared each other down, silent. Mische’s eyes were big and stubborn. Most of the time, they looked pretty and doe-like. People often said that Mische’s eyes were her prettiest feature. But they didn’t see her pissed off. Then, they were downright terrifying.

She wasn’t quite there, yet, but I could see the shadow of it, and that was bad enough.

As if she should be giving me that look. When I was the one following her around getting snapped at for the great crime of worrying about her.

And Iwasworried about her.

“Enough with the bullshit,” I said. But the words came out soft—as soft, I supposed, as I meant them. “Tell me what happened.”

“I thought Oraya told you already.”

Oraya didn’t tell me why you’ve been avoiding me for a week,I wanted to say.She didn’t tell me why you were put in that apartment instead of in the dungeons. She didn’t tell me why you look so broken.

“Oraya told me about a dead prince,” I shot back. “I don’t give a fuck about that. I’m asking aboutyou.”

Mische stopped walking, then turned around. The anger drained from her face, leaving behind something childlike and conflicted that reminded me so much of the way she had looked when I first found her, it made my chest physically hurt.

“She didn’t tell you?”

“Do I need to talk to Oraya now to find out what’s going on inside that head of yours?”

Mische didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned against the wall, slid down it, and perched on a pile of rock, her head in her hands.

The guilt was immediate.

I sat down next to her, even though the rocks were so low to the ground that I ended up ridiculously curled up on myself. I peered at her face between tendrils of honey hair.

“Mish,” I murmured. “I—”

“It was him.”

The three words came out in a single breath. So fast they ran together and it took a minute for me to untangle them.

“Him,” I repeated.

And she lifted her head, and she looked at me with those big eyes filled with rage and tears, and I just fucking knew.

Every shred of my frustration fell away. Every single emotion, every thought, every sensation disappeared, save for the utter all-consuming rage.

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