Page 187 of The Ashes and the Star-Cursed King

His eyes were heavy lidded, unblinking. With the blue reflection of the water and the algae, they looked almost purple.

“Can’t imagine it looked this good on Vincent,” he murmured.

I wondered if he was seeing the same thing in my Mark that I had just seen in his—all the ways it complemented my specific form. I hadn’t noticed that before. Like Raihn, I had seen the Mark as something that belonged to someone else, superimposed onto my skin.

It wasn’t until right now, looking at it through the lens of Raihn’s, that I considered the differences. The way the wings across my chest were a little smaller, more delicate, than Vincent’s, following the shape of my clavicle. The way the smoke speared down between my breasts, following the lines of my body and mine alone.

“I never thought it looked right on me,” I admitted.

Like it was a costume. Something that never should have been given to me.

“I think it suits you perfectly.” His touch trailed down—down between my breasts, feather-light over the sensitive skin.

“You said it yourself. Your title. Queen. This Mark belongs to you.” His lips curled. “Your skin. Your body. Your Mark.”

Somehow, it didn’t sound like a platitude when Raihn said it. It sounded like the truth.

His gaze lifted, those deep red eyes piercing mine. His touch stalled, lingering on my chest.

“Did you mean it?” he said. “What you told Jesmine.”

He didn’t need to specify what he was talking about.

When we reclaim our kingdom, I intend to rule beside him as such.

I felt, all at once, much more naked than I had thirty seconds ago.

“I’m not going to risk my life and the lives of what little army I have left just to put your ass back on that throne without taking some of it for myself,” I said.

Somehow, I could tell he knew my dismissive tone was a little forced.

He rasped a low laugh.

“Good,” he said. “I’d be disappointed otherwise.”

“It has nothing to do with you,” I said, before I could stop myself.

An infuriating, stubborn smile clung to his mouth. “Mhm. Of course not.”

“I’m still not sure that you’re not going to fuck me over,” I grumbled—just because I felt like it was what Ishouldsay, even if the truth of it was now obvious, even to me.

But his thumb came to my chin, gently tipping my face back to him. His stare was steady, uncomfortably direct.

“I am not going to fuck you over,” he said.

Firmly. Like it was nothing more and nothing less than fact. Itfeltlike fact, when he said it like that. And the truth was, I believed him.

I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction, though. So I narrowed my eyes.

“Again, you mean,” I said. “Fuck me overagain.”

His lips twitched. “That face. There she is.”

Then the smirk faded, revealing something so much more serious, something I wanted to wriggle away from. I didn’t, though—I met his stare, let his thumb hold my chin.

It was frightening to give someone your trust.

More frightening still to give it for a second time, after they broke it the first.

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