Page 57 of Wicked Prince of Shadows
His jaw locked, the stitching in his face pulling tight. He looked toward the window, though the curtains were drawn. Silence stretched between us, thick with everything he hadn’t said.
My chest ached.
I didn't know what to say to that. The warmth in his eyes, the way his thumb continued those gentle circles against my skin—it made something deep inside me ache with longing and fear in equal measure. This man who had terrified me days ago, who had kidnapped me and threatened my life, was now looking at me like I was precious. Like I mattered beyond just being a potential solution to this curse.
I reached for his hand, my fingers brushing against his clawed ones. "But you did get there. We're both safe."
He turned his hand over, curling his long fingers around mine. His thumb began those small, aching circles again. "I am a king. It’s my duty to protect my people. And you—" He paused, his gaze dropping to our joined hands. "You…almost died.”
My heart squeezed in response. “But I didn’t.”
His jaw worked, the stitches pulling tight along his face. His gaze lifted. The fire in those amber eyes had quieted into embers, slow-burning and intense. "No. You didn't." His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. "I will never permit you to be so close to death again."
I swallowed as a knot formed in my throat. The way he said it—so passionately, so firmly. It was like a vow that settled between us, dark and solemn, and the way his thumb kept circling my palm betrayed something softer. His skin was cold, yet the steady motion sent a strange heat up my arm. The ache intensified within me. Maybe it was because I knew thatif my hope didn’t prove right, he might have to choose between sacrificing me and…
I shifted, threading my fingers through his, palm to palm. “You can’t promise that.” My voice barely carried.
His grip on my hand tensed, and the air heavied between us. “No,” he admitted quietly. “But I can try.”
I ducked my head but didn’t let go of his hand. Though I couldn’t bring myself to say it aloud, I knew that if it turned out Rasoul’s blood proved my being royal changed nothing, then Vetle would have to make a devastating choice. My throat tightened.
The flicker of candlelight caught on his hair and along the scars of his face, gilding him in pale gold and shadow. His wings were half-furled, the tips brushing the floor as his shadows moved as if the wind brushed against the flame.
It wasn’t a choice anyone should have to make. And suddenly I doubted that Rasoul’s blood would reveal anything to help us. A desperate, gnawing fear surged again, bitter in the back of my throat. I swallowed hard. “What about the tablets? Did they reveal more?”
His expression shifted, some of the anguish replaced by something sharper as if he braced himself. "They did. The guards are taking it in shifts to reveal it. You were right. The earth had built up around the tablets. It’s quite solid, but they will have the rubbings for Maltric. He will translate them tonight.” He indicated my mug on the small table with a dip of his head, the light catching on his spiked crown. “Drink more of your tea.”
“Were there any other pictograms? Anything that offers another solution?” My heart quickened as I took another sip.
“There are signs that there is a counterimage that mirrors the top third of the panel…or I suppose now the top quarter. But the excavation and analysis aren't finished yet. We’ll have answersno later than dawn.” His gaze drifted over me, a soft marveling in his expression. “What made you realize that there was more hidden?”
“I work with plants.” I looked down, heat flushing over my neck. The way he watched me made my pulse thrum low. "After seasons of working in the gardens, you notice how things accumulate. Soil builds up year after year. Leaves decay. Roots push through. What's buried gets deeper." I gestured vaguely toward where I thought the tablets might be, then offered an awkward smile, my shoulders tensing. “It’s just what I do.”
He smiled, his fangs showing more. Something like delight shone in his eyes as his pupils widened. “So it is.”
My fingers twitched against the mug as I lowered it. “What about everyone here? The behemoths…everything…” I glanced around the bedroom that had been my home these past days. It seemed as it had been from the first time I was here, though the curtains were drawn firmly shut.
A muscle jumped in his jaw, his gaze flickering as his brow drew up. “The garden was almost completely destroyed. Most of the storerooms as well.”
“And Osric thinks there will still be a dance?” I held the mug tighter, my hands shaking a little despite the warmth seeping through the ceramic.
“Of course we’ll dance.” His voice dropped, low and sure. “We’ll celebrate in the central northern courtyard all night long and greet the sun as the blood moon begins its final descent. It won’t be a feast, not truly. If you eat, temper your hopes. There’s an abundance of deathbeak meat. Bren, Candice, Kiln—they’re doing what they can. The alchemists are brewing comforts. But the point of the dance isn’t abundance.”
His thumb brushed beneath mine. “It’s a celebration of survival. We dance because we’re still here—not because we were spared, not because the Witheringlands showed mercy.But because we endured. And so we honor the living and hope the Maker remembers us and brings us out of this place to the Waking Lands.” He drew my hand to his lips, cool breath brushing my skin before his mouth pressed reverently to my knuckles. “If you feel strong enough…I would be honored to have you at my side as my honored guest…as my queen.”
My breath caught. The touch of his lips—cold, delicate—sent a ripple of sensation down my spine. A whisper of something deeper. “I’d like that. Is there anything I need to do?”
“Rest. Recover. You may come down whenever you like, but when you hear the music start, that’s when the dance begins. There are some formal tasks I must prepare and some matters to oversee, but I will meet you there.”
I nodded, then set the mug aside on the small table beside the bed. My fingers lingered on the cool surface, reluctant to break contact with something solid and real. "Thank you.”
His expression softened, something vulnerable flickering across his features before he masked it. "You've thanked me enough. Rest now." He stood, his wings rustling as he moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the handle. He looked as if he might be about to say something, his shoulders tightening. Then he opened the door and strode out, letting the door click shut behind him.
I lay back against the pillows, heart thudding. The room felt larger with him gone. Emptier. Colder. The sensation of his touch lingered like a ghost against my skin.
My fingers traced absent patterns on the blanket as I tried to process everything that had happened.
The behemoth attack. The vines. The tablets. The blood moon. The curse. Enola—bleeding hemlock, if she’d been here, she’d have teased me for letting Vetle hold my hand, let alone carry me. I’d have told her to be still, of course.
