Page 56 of Healer to the Ash King
It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about the Ash King. My shock must show on my face, because she blushes and says, “Oh, yes—he told me I could call him by his first name.”
“So you two are getting close?” I avoid her eyes as I scan her body for injuries.
Her face darkens a little. “I know what you’re thinking. The pregnancy thing. I’d made up my mind to end it, actually—and then today, when I was out there, facing those monsters, I realized I wasn’t so much scared for myself as for this one.” She places a protective hand over her belly. “I want this child, Cailin. Whoever they are—they’re mine, and I won’t give them up.”
My heart warms, but I can’t help speaking the truth she needs to hear. “You’ll have to tell the King, then.”
“I know.” She presses her fingertips to her brow, kneading it. “It’s just so hard. He’ll probably kick me out of the contest. And I can’t be kicked out, Cailin. I have to stay. Ineedto be here. Can you give me just a little longer? Please?”
My brows pinch together. “I can see him falling for you, Khloe. Is it fair to make him love you without giving him all the information?”
“Love is love,” she protests. “It can overcome anything.”
With those earnest, innocent dark eyes shining into mine, I can’t bear to deny or contradict her.
“A little more time,” I promise, and a smile like pure sunshine breaks over her face.
But a creeping sensation of dread stays with me long after the healing sessions are done.
20
During the banquet that night, Axley sits at a private table in the corner with the King. When we’re all dismissed, we go up to a long lounge on the third floor of the central wing. The room opens onto a well-guarded balcony on which couples can promenade—a balcony shielded by trees so there are no clear lines of sight from other windows or rooftops to this spot. As always, security is paramount.
There are quiet nooks and soft sofas throughout the lounge, too. It’s a space made for drinks, quiet conversations, and secret kisses. With a sweep and shiver of bows over strings, a small group of musicians serenades the gathered guests.
I encounter several of my acquaintances from the other evening—my dance partners and the contest officials I befriended—and it’s nice to hear their pleasant greetings. Most of the nobility and advisors are still pointedly ignoring me, probably because they’ve heard about my quarters in the Rose Room. For a city so dedicated to free love, they’re being unfairly judgmental about my supposed connection to the Ash King.
I’m wearing a simple blue backless gown tonight, with a couple pieces of jewelry. My hair is pinned up neatly. Nothing about the ensemble invites censure, yet people I pass still break into significant whispers of which I can’t catch more than a few worrying words like “mistress… scheming… bewitched… not fair… scandalous.”
Finally I escape to the long balcony. I walk to its far end, where a veil of ivy throws a corner bench into deep shadow. I’m lucky no lovers have found this spot yet.
Tucking myself into the dark corner, I close my eyes and inhale the scent of fresh green leaves and summery night air. I toe off my shoes and sweep my bare soles over the smooth stone floor of the balcony, wishing it was the worn cobbles of the village square.
Homesickness knots my belly so tightly I feel physically ill. I want my home so badly. I’ve lost myself here—I’ve wandered from who I knew myself to be. I have to get back to my truth. I have to remember that I’m not Cailin of the Undoing, or Cailin the Keeper of Secrets, or Cailin the Healer who spies on her patients for the King. And I’m certainly not Cailin who might be falling for the wicked murderous Ash King.
I’m just Cailin, water-wielder for her people, healer to the surrounding villages, daughter to loving parents, big sister to the neighbor children, mentee of the Ceannaire.
And I want to go home.
Two figures glide through the gold-lit doors of the lounge, stepping out onto the balcony.
“See that no one disturbs us,” mutters a low voice to one of the guards.
It’s the Ash King. And the girl with him is Axley.
He pushes her against the wall, in the shadowed space between two of the lounge windows. I curl myself tighter into my dark corner, pain pulsing through every beat of my heart.
I should make myself known. I shouldn’t watch this.
But I stay quiet, and I stare.
The Ash King kisses Axley, his mouth wide open to hers, his cheeks sucking in slightly as he plunges his tongue into her mouth. Her thin, elegant fingers arch against his shoulder, nearly piercing the fine material of his shirt. His hips grind against hers, urgent, desperate. She rakes the hem of his shirt up, her nails grazing his back beneath his white hair.
There are guards posted all along this balcony. They can see everything. How far is the King going to take this tryst?
Pretty damn far, apparently. She’s reaching for his pants, undoing buttons between harsh kisses. His hand sweeps over her breast.
He’s supposed to wait until there are five girls left before he sleeps with any of them. My fingernails dent my palms deeply, an echo to the agony in my heart.
