Page 84 of Bride of the Black Dragon
The statue topples and shatters on the floor. The sound is deafening in the silence.
Dorian whirls and our eyes lock.
His face goes pale—then red.
“You,” he breathes. “You little spy.”
“I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to—” I begin, backing away. But it’s too late—he’s on me in an instant, his hand clamping around my arm like a vise. His breath reeks of wine and his eyes are red with fury.
“How dare you come sneaking around here, spying on me again!” he snarls.
“I—I wasn’t spying! I just got lost!” I babble.
His lip curls. And then—chillingly—he smiles.
“Actually, this is perfect… I’m glad you were spying.” He holds up the empty vial and grins at me most unpleasantly. “This is the perfect opportunity.”
Before I can scream or yank my arm out of his grip, he hauls me out of the King’s chambers, dragging me down the main corridor.
His grip is brutal and my arm throbs. My heart hammers in my chest—oh, Goddess, this is bad. This is so, so bad.
“Guards! Guards!” Dorian bellows. “Quickly—this little bitch has poisoned the King! I caught her in the act!”
“No! I didn’t— I didn’t do anything!” I cry, but he’s louder than I am.
“Call the Court Physician!” he roars. “The King is dead! Did you hear me—I said, the King is dead!”
And then everything descends into chaos.
44
ELAINA
The world becomes a blur of marble and velvet and rushing sound as Dorian drags me through the palace halls.
My slippers slip uselessly on the polished floor. I stumble, catching myself, but his grip on my arm only tightens, fingers digging in so hard I know I’ll have bruises. I don’t dare protest. Not when I can hear guards rushing to join us—not when I can see where he’s taking me.
The throne room.
The tall gold doors open with a groaning creak and Dorian all but flings me forward into the center of the vast, echoing space.
The room is filled with people.
Nobles in elaborate finery cluster along the sides, whispering behind gloved hands. Silks rustle…jewels glint. The cloying scent of perfume and pomade hangs thick in the air.
At the far end, raised on her carved stone dais beneath the Royal Seal, sits Queen Virelda.
She is cold and composed as always. Her dress is black with scarlet threads running through it—almost as though she’s already dressed in mourning, though the King’s body has not yet even cooled.
She leans forward slightly, her sharp brows arching.
“Well,” she says, frowning. “What is the meaning of this disruption?”
Dorian steps forward, face twisted with false grief. He holds up the tiny black vial in one gloved hand like a priest showing relics to a congregation.
“Treachery!” he cries. “My Lords, my Ladies—Mother! The King is dead. Poisoned in his bed by this little spy!”
Gasps echo through the throne room like breaking glass and all eyes turn on me. I feel their accusing glare, though I know I don’t deserve it. But who is going to believe me over the Crown Prince?
