Page 60 of Bride of the Corpse King

My jaw hardens. Whatever Kryach has infected her mind with, I have no access. He’s formed a predominant barrier, so I may not influence her mind with his shadow power I merely shelter. I don’t fault him after what I did to her.

Every now and then, she wakes. Shooting to sitting, she adjusts the robe, glances at me as if ensuring I am still in my place...resting in the deep chair opposite of the bed. Once she’s satisfied, she rests her head upon the pillow again.

Except tonight, she rakes her fingers through her waves, blinking a few times, then narrows her eyes to slits, inspecting me. Cupping her forehead, inhaling deeply, Isla glances around the room before turning back to me. When her lips part, I work to not betray my accelerated breathing while my chest tightens, ribcage constricting.

Without her flesh, without her blood all these months, the torture is worse. The numbing poison of Sythe wine drenches my tongue, but it cannot hope to dull my thirst for her, my craving for her blood. How I’ve rotted more from lack of flesh. How bones protrude through my once whole side. I must rely on Kryach’s shadow power to simply stand from this chair.

Flicking her eyes to my skull mask, Isla heaves a sigh and commands, “Come to bed, Allysteir.” The resolute of a true Queen with the crown always prominent upon her head because she wears it even in slumber. Never forsaking it, it’s as if she cherishes it, treasures it, and...fears its loss.

Wringing my hands, I slowly rise from the chair and make my way toward her until I am but a breath from her body. She stiffens upon my approach, cranes her neck, and hunts for the reality behind my mask.

“I do not wish you any discomfort,” I alert her, dipping my head and finishing, “My Lady.”

Isla huffs, folds her arms across her chest and calls my bluff. She sneers, “Get in the damn bed, my King. I may never allow you to fuck me, but it doesn’t mean we cannot act as a civilhusband and wife,” she expresses, drawing the boundary.

Never is an impossibility. In time, she will accept me, desire me as every bride before her.

Shoulders sinking in surrender, in unchecked relief, I blink behind my mask...then gradually wander to the other side of the bed. Isla monitors me, hand flexed, studying me as I curve the coverlet back, and lower myself into the bed next to her. Her warmth infuses me. I suck a deep inhale. Her luxurious scent invades my nostrils.

“You’ve been drinking more,” she comments, swinging her head to the numerous empty flagons upon every surface of the suite. Ones I’ve drained each given day for the past week. The Sythe wine and visiting my refter brides, visiting Finleigh are my only survival strategies since I’ve chosen to focus most of my attention on my bride.

After the first week, Isla asked to return. It takes time for her to learn their names, their faces. But she gifts them with distinctive flowers to identify them. Studying agriculture has become her second hobby along with riding Ifrynna and talking to Cryth River spirits, learning their histories, their passions.

Past brides never showed interest.

When I don’t respond, merely fix my corpus mask upon her, Isla twitches, her fingers curling slightly, prompting more hope within me. Until she clenches them. “How much pain are you in?”

After a long pause, I flare my nostrils, raise my chin, and declare, “Much.”

Isla nods, chin dipping low before she snaps those bejeweled amethysts to me and hums, “Good. Go to sleep.”

I refrain from sniggering mockery. No, she won’t allow me to bite her tonight. Granting me the bed, the closeness is her first offering. Her olive branch. One I do not deserve. No, I must earn more and am well-prepared and equipped.

My dark rose, I admire her spirit. Her strength. Her passion. How she knows her worth. Isla was a Queen long before I placed a crown upon her head.

My little wonder, Kryach surfaces for the first time tonight, and I snarl deep in my throat. Low enough, Isla does not hear when she rolls onto her side.

Before I drift to sleep, I inhale, nostrils burning from her flesh scent of winter roses, star juice, and Isle fruit. Warding off the urge to snap my teeth, I address my bride’s back, her lustrous waves bereft of their earlier adornment of corpus roses, gold thread, and pearls, “My Lady, if you will consent, I would like to take you somewhere tomorrow. A place beyond the Citadel. A secret haven.”

“A secret like your refter bride glen?” she challenges without turning but a bite in her voice, her back muscles steeling themselves.

“If it would ease your discomfort, I will vow with my blood...” I pause, closing my eyes from the ramifications of what I’ve offered; it will weaken me, deteriorate me more. Regardless, I continue, “I will vow with my own blood: I intend no harm, and I challenge you: you will adore this place and beg me to return.”

My bride perks her head and tilts her neck so her exquisite waves drape to one side. I recognize the luster in her eyes, how she cannot resist such a challenge. Despite how my heart has crept into my throat, I lower my shoulders, relieved when she pinches her lips and nods.

“Agreed, Allysteir. I will come with you tomorrow. But,” she raises a finger and rolls over to face me, her brows screwing low, so shadows swarm her eyes when she cunningly defines, “I’ll still have your blood vow.”

Without another word, I bury my face in my robe, lift my mask, and drag my Feyal teeth across one of few avenues on my body bearing flesh and sinew and skin. Once I do, I replace my mask and offer her my naked wrist beyond the glove sheltering my phalange bones.

Isla touches the tips of her fingers to my blood. I hiss pained wind through my clenched teeth at the touch, but Isla stills, eyes softening and widening to gaze at me in awe. Her fingers linger, tracing the exposed flesh as my robe covers everything else. She discovers old scars...from our wedding night.

As soon as she unearths another scar, I withdraw, retrieve my arm, and grant her a wide berth. It doesn’t take long before her soft, rolling snores fill the chamber. I chuckle, then close my eyes and breathe in torment from her body heat, from her scent tickling my nostrils. And I have to wonder if her acceptance is punishing torture more than a gift.

Because she’s fast asleep when my remaining arm flesh turns to rot from lack of Feyal blood.

Rousing the next day,I acknowledge the lack of a chill. Dewy sweat lingers on my brow which means Allysteir is gone. My hand strays to his side of the bed. A slight indent along with some shed bone powder remains. I cup my forehead, panting. He must have left early on his Death business so he will have time for me later. I couldn’t resist his challenge.

No, I haven’t forgiven him, but nor am I a monster who desires his chronic suffering. Considering he drinks beyond his weight in Sythe wine every day, it’s obvious he is more rot and bone and ruin.

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