Page 133 of The Spark that Ignites
The door cracked open and a petite lady with sandy blonde hair peeked her head in, her eyes downcast. Her black vestige was identical to Briar’s, and she wore a crisp white dress with a black ribbon around her throat. “Are you decent, my lady?”
Emmery kept her distance and let her push into the room.
The woman curtsied. “My name is Talia. It’s an honour to meet you.”
Emmery waved off her pleasantries and polite smile. “Where am I? And more importantly, why?”
“You are in Asaella, my lady. The Divine Kingdom. I am required to prepare you for your dinner with His Majesty, King Destonne.”
Her stomach clenched and she gripped the candlestick harder. Talia didn’t seem to notice. “I will not be dining with the King. I wish to leave.”
“I’m afraid it’s not optional.” Flinging open the door of the wardrobe, she retrieved a skimpy dress the colour of Emmery’s pyjamas. “This would be lovely for tonight's affair.”
“There will be no dress,” Emmery said, sneering at the word. “There will be no affair.”
Smiling sweetly, Talia added, “It’s merely dinner, my lady.”
Eyeing the dress, she crossed her arms. “I’m not his plaything and won’t be dressed up like somedoll.”
Talia paled, discomfort twisting her features. “I’m sorry, my lady. He would have come himself but, at the moment, he’s—indisposed.”
“I’ll wait”—she swallowed down her fear—“until he summons the courtesy to come speak with me himself.” She perched on the bed, fighting the urge to cover her exposed legs.
“My lady—”
“Emmery. Please, just Emmery.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll wait here. However long it takes.”
Talia curtsied, not hiding her sigh before she said, her voice tired, “Very well. I shall inform him.”
Emmery sat back on the bed, tucking herself under the covers as Talia slipped from the room. She set the candlestick down and waited, counting the tiles on the ceiling. One hundred twenty-seven.
So, she counted again.
And by the time she finished a third, Emmery had dozed off.
EMMERY FELT HIM THEmoment she woke, before even opening her eyes, like a rope lassoing her throat with a swift tug. But as she cracked an eyelid, she frowned at the figure slumped in the white armchair, his hood drawn and the chilled scent of fresh air clinging to his cloak.
The man from Malheim drummed his fingers rhythmically on his knee, still adorning those leather gloves with expensive stitching. The sight of those fingers wrapped around Guthrie’s neck, snapping it without a care in the world, flashed through her mind. And he watched her with intrigue, his large presence shrinking the room.
Emmery’s breath hitched, sticking in her throat.
As he stood from the chair, his cloak hood veiled much of his face. “I’ve never heard anyone snore like that,” he teased, tilting his head as he examined her. “It was quite loud for someone your size.”
Emmery scowled, remembering Vesper telling her the same thing. “That’s awfully rude.” She rolled her eyes, dragging a hand down her face. “What are you doing here? Finished murdering innocents and tormenting woodland creatures for the day?”
“Woodland creatures?” He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, angel, I wouldneverharm an animal. They’re innocent.” Smoothing his cloak he added, “And you requested my presence.”
Emmery’s heart slowed as every fleck of detail came into focus, the room stilling and her breath freezing in her lungs as he removed his hood.
The crown, mostly concealed beneath his tousled, brown curls, was part of him as much as his eyes, nose, and ears with the way it was embedded in his skull. Blood speckled some of the glinting thorns and tangled branches. She recognized his strong jawline and dark stare—his eyes so black his irises swallowed his pupils. His lips were full, his cheekbones high, and he was classically handsome. Beautiful even.
But he was a murderer and a sociopath, and he had killed Izora and forced Vesper into his service. Not to mention burned Ellynne to the ground.
The colour drained from Emmery’s face, and she couldn’t breathe. “You’re—”
“Your Majesty? Your Grace? I would settle for Destonne, though I do prefer Dez if we’re going to be intimately acquainted.” He paused, giving her space to interject, but her tongue disconnected. Likely catching the mix of shock and terror on her face, he added, “Ah, no. I suppose you were looking for the crowd favourite.”
The King of Thorns.
