Page 14 of The Prisoner's Throne
Of course, the longer he waits, the luckier he will have to be.
Still, he can hardly barge into Wren’s rooms now. The guards would not have left yet. And there would certainly be servants—even with so few in the castle—attending her.
Oak paces back and forth, willing himself to be calm. His heart is racing. He is thinking of the Wren he saw, a Wren as distant as the coldest, farthest star in the sky. He cannot even focus on the room itself, which he should almost certainly hunt through to find a weapon or mask or something useful.
But instead he counts the minutes until he believes he can safely— well, as safely as possible, given the inherent danger of this impulsive plan—go to Wren’s rooms. He finds no guard waiting in the hall— unsurprising, given the narrowness of the tower, but excellent. No voices come from inside.
What is surprising is that when he turns the knob, the door opens.
He steps into her rooms, expecting Wren’s anger. But only silence greets him.
A low couch sits along one wall, a tray with a teapot and cups on the table in front of it. In a corner beside it, the ice crown rests on a pillow atop a pillar. And across the room, a bed hung with curtains depicting thorned vines and blue flowers.
He walks to it and sweeps the fabric aside.
Wren is sleeping, her pale cerulean hair spread out over the pillows. He recalls brushing it out when they were in the Court of Moths. Recalls the wild tangle of it and the way she held herself very still while his hands touched her.
Her eyes move restlessly under their lids, as though she doesn’t even feel safe in dreams. Her skin has a glassy quality, as though from sweat or possibly ice.
What has she been doing to herself?
He takes a step closer, knowing he shouldn’t. His hand reaches out, as though he might graze his fingers over her cheek. As though to prove to himself that she’s real, and there, and alive.
He doesn’t touch her, of course. He’s not that much of a fool.
But as though she can sense him, Wren opens her eyes.
CHAPTER
3
Wren blinks up at Oak, and he gives her what he hopes is an apologetic grin. Her startled expression smooths out into puzzlement and some emotion he is less able to name. She reaches up, and he bends lower, going to one knee, so that she can brush her fingers over the nape of his neck. He shivers at her touch. Looking down into her dark green eyes, he tries to read her feelings in the minute shifts of her countenance. He thinks he sees a longing there to match his own.
Wren’s lips part on a sigh.
“I want—” he begins.
“No,” she tells him. “By the power of Grimsen’s bridle, get on your knees and be silent.”
Surprise makes him try to pull away, to stand, but he cannot. His teeth close on the words he now cannot say.
It’s an awful feeling, his body turning against him. He was on one knee already, but his other leg bends without his deciding to move. As his calves strike the frozen floor, he understands, in a way that he never has before, Wren’s horror of the bridle. Jude’s need for control. He has never known this kind of helplessness.
Her mouth curves into a smile, but it isn’t a nice one. “By Grimsen, I command you to do exactly as I say from here forward. You will stay on your knees until I say otherwise.”
Oak should have left when he had the chance.
She rises from the bed and draws on a dressing gown. Walks over to where he kneels.
He looks at her slippered foot. Glances up at the rest of her. A strand of light blue hair has fallen across one scarred cheek. Her lips have a little pink at the inner edges, like the inside of a shell.
It is hard to imagine her as she was when they began their quest, a feral girl who seemed like the living embodiment of the woods. Wild and brave and kind. There is no shyness in her gaze now. No kindness, either.
He finds her fascinating. He’s always found her fascinating, but he is not foolish enough to tell her that. Especially not in this moment, when he is afraid of her.
“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to see me again, prince,” Wren says. “I understand that you called for me in your cell.”
He screamed for her. Screamed until his throat was hoarse. But even if he was allowed to speak, clarifying that would only compound his many, many mistakes.
