Page 70 of Black Salt Queen

Hisqueen. A faint blush spread over Laya’s cheeks. “Don’t tell me this was all part of some ruse you concocted simply to marry me.”

“Of course not, Laya. It’s more complicated than that. You wouldn’t understand,” Luntok said, turning away.

“Then help me to,” she said firmly. “I want to know what would push a man like you to do such a terrible thing.”

Luntok’s face tightened. He leaned against the balustrade, gesturing at the royal gardens with a wide sweep of his arm. “How could you understand, Laya, when you grew up with this your entire life?” he said. “My people were once the mightiest and most revered sovereigns in the land before your ancestors decimated them. The Gatdulas slaughtered our shamans. Burned down our palace. They did this, and once the westerners began laying claim to the Untulu Sea, they claimed to be our protectors.”

“Please,” Laya said with a scoff. “Your people would never have stood a chance against the westerners. Youneededus.”

Luntok shook his head. “The Gatdulas didn’t care about protecting us. They merely wanted uncontested power. So they made sure to destroy us before bringing us to heel. Not once did they consider the alternative.”

“And what was that?” she asked, incredulous.

“How much stronger we could have been?—together.” He looked at her, hope burning in his gaze.

Together.

The word cleaved Laya’s heart in two. She swallowed hard. A balmy wind swept over the palace roofs, carrying with it the sting of nectar and rotting fruit. He reached for her again, tangling his fingers in her limp, grime-ridden hair.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and she sighed. “Maybe you were right, Luntok.”

“Right about what?” he asked, his breath warm against her cheek.

“We should have run away.”

Had it only been two weeks since Luntok had asked her to run away with him? He hadn’t meant it. Part of Laya wished he had.

When she didn’t pull away from him, he cupped her face in his palms, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Now we don’t have to.”

Pain erupted in Laya’s chest. His gentle touch reminded her of what they once had, and she couldn’t bear it. She launched forward, beating Luntok’s arms and torso with her shackled wrists.

“Luntok, you damnedfool. Some glorious union. Is this how you always dreamed it?”

Laya spat and kicked, but not once did Luntok strike her back. He stood still as a statue, collecting her wild blows as if they were loving caresses. “Coward,” she said as a sob tore through her lips. “You damnedcoward.”

With a desperate snarl, Laya grabbed the collar of his vest. She yanked him close. She wanted to blacken his sorrowful eyes. To bruise his smooth jawline, squared in anguish.

Instead, she curled into his arms and wept into the hollow of his neck.

How many times had she sought refuge in Luntok’s embrace? He was supposed to hold her the way no one else could hold her. He was supposed to love her in ways the rest of Maynara could not.

“Try to understand that I did this for us. Your family would have held you back. Forced you to marry someone you didn’t love. I refused to let that happen. I couldn’t bear to lose you,” Luntok murmured, his shoulders relaxing as he wrapped his arms around her. The damned traitor. He was relieved, Laya realized?—because she could no longer push him away.

Disgusted, Laya recoiled. “I’m tired,” she said in a flat voice. “If you don’t mind, I think I will sleep.”

He followed her back into the bedroom. “Don’t you want to bathe first?”

Laya looked down. She had yet to discard the clothes she had worn during the midnight feast, wrinkled and bloodstained at the hem. It was once a lovely dress made of amethyst silk with canary-yellow trim. The serving girl Yari had offered to help Laya out of it, but she’d sent her away.

“I can’t undress myself in these shackles. And I will die before I allow that little tart to touch me.” Laya shook her head vehemently. She hadn’t lost her pride, despite the grime that coated her clothes and the chains attached to her wrists.

Luntok nodded in understanding. He called for the guard posted outside the door to come in.

“What is it, my lord?” the guard asked, bowing his head.

“Remove the shackles,” he said without preamble.

The guard hesitated. “My lord?”

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