Page 59 of Bride of the Corpse King

“Aryuhdair!”

It’s notmyscream, normywords. My shoulders sink at the familiar, deep voice behind me, at the parietal skull bone hanging from his neck.

The angyl pauses. His grip loosens, and he seethes. More smoke rushes from his nostrils, from his teeth.

Frozen, scream hacked off, I hold my breath. All my skin prickles when boots approach, when the protestor follows with a rigid command, “Release my sister-in-law or suffer my wrath, fallen one. We both know I, save for the King himself, have the power to strip you of those wings and any possibility of their restoration.”

Waves of breath rasping, I angle my neck to Prince Aydon, who fingers his parietal skull bone in a warning promise?the most powerful bone in the kingdom next to Allysteir’s. Muscles quivering, I press my lips into a solid seam and wrench my arms from the angyl. I’m relieved when he doesn’t grip harder, though his claws rake my skin.

The Prince extends his hand to me. Grateful, I take it. My heartbeat slows, and I almost buckle.

Before the angyl responds, Aydon murmurs a chant under his breath while gripping the skull bone. A sudden force assaults the angyl, thrusting him closer to the portal.

“Fly away,” I taunt before Aryuhdair roars, and the portal devours him. It closes, evanescing into thin air.

All my adrenaline dives. I crash to my knees, a raw pang in my chest and a sharp stinging along my arms.

Aydon catches me before my head meets the ground. “Lady Isla...” The Prince’s concerned voice blurs in my ears, and I struggle to stay awake. Lids too heavy. But his chanting words and rubbing bone powder along my arms, the chalky sensation tickling my fine hairs, motivates my blood.

When I muster the strength to open my eyes, I meet Aydon’s blue ones. Deep indigo, charismatic, and keen. And creased with worry. His warm fingers linger upon my arms, trace the flesh. I tilt my head to the marks, remnants of Aryuhdair’s claws, fading to Aydon’s healing power, his bone magic.

He touches his knuckles to my forehead to check for a fever. “Lady Isla, do you have any other wounds?”

I find my voice, but it cracks, a little hoarse. “N-no,” I tremble and expel any remaining fear in a breath. “No, I’m not hurt. Thank you, Prince Aydon.”

“Aydon will suffice.”

His other hand encircles my arm, thumb rubbing my bare skin. Peering down, I note how many weeping leaves I lost in my struggle with the angyl. Heat spirals to my neck and reddens my cheeks from the gown strap dangling perilously low to expose half my left breast. Gaps at my waist reveal more skin from the angyl’s claws and my thighs from where I’d kicked and dragged my feet.

“Oh, gods,” I moan and bury my face in my hands.

Aydon chuckles, assumes my elbow, and raises me to my feet. I suck a sharp breath when his body nudges mine for a breath. He parts his lips before his features morph into the charismatic royal, smile too beguiling to be genuine, eyes narrowing with political cunning which betrays how he plays games. Long ones.

Lifting my hand to his lips, he kisses the back and declares, “Do not concern yourself, Isla. We both know you do not suffer the concern of modesty. And I am a Feyal-Ithydeir Prince,” he offers the reminder, but I don’t miss his eyes flicking over those gaps.

I swallow hard, an uncomfortable knot in my belly. Not desire but apprehension. Despite the Prince escorting me to a private coach stationed outside the gardens, I wonder if I have more to fear from Aryuhdair and the Nether-Void, from the lower gods.

Or from Aydon.

Three months passwith Isla never allowing me to enter the bed, nor so much as touch her.

We’ve passed into a quiet but comfortable routine. Morning meals together. She continues to accompany me on my Death business. Supper with Franzy, Mathyr, and Aydon. In her spare time, she prefers the tower library, though I find it amusing whenever she attempts to please Master Ivory...and fails. With an infinite number of floral species, Isla has spent long nights with her nose invested in books, researching the blooms of other regions such as Narcyssa’s crypta strygoi or the native flowers of the Wisp-Shee. But whenever she attempts to present Master Ivory with an adornment, his branches shake every petal, leaving my bride to clench her white-knuckled fists to contrast her rage-reddened cheeks. She fumes and stalks off every time.

More than once, I’ve offered to provide her insight, but my bride, myQueenmerely raises her hand to shush me and refuses. For Isla, everything is a challenge she must overcome on her own.

By the end of the first month, all the royals returned to their kingdoms and the nobles to their cities, affording Nathyan Ghyeal peace and normality. They will return for the Night of Masks: the last date for Isla and me to consummate our marriage.

Much to my gratitude, Isla and Franzy remain close. Out of respect, they share a bed in Isla’s old suite. My conversation with Aydon was productive?potentially the most productive I’ve had with him in centuries. I know why. He suspects my knowledge of his recent transgressions against Talahn-Feyal. But he has respected Franzy by delaying their consummation until she requests. For now, he’s on his best behavior.

At night, I simply observe Isla as I observed countless brides passing to sleep, always imagining their dreams, wishing I could grant them sweet ones. Patience unrivaled after a practice of more than centuries, I knit my fingers together, surveying my bride beyond the skull depths.

She has not stopped wearing my robes to bed. I don’t know whether it’s a good sign or a simple rationale on account of her desire for comfort. Regardless, it grants me a sliver of hope to expand my chest most nights.

Tonight, the jeweled coverlet of our bed has strayed from her body. From her side, she rolls in her sleep until she splays out on her back, arms wide, legs sprawled. The robe exposes her voluptuous hips and the alabaster basins of her ample thighs: a plentiful feast for my teeth. With her hair as abundant starlight and flame upon her pillow and robe parted to reveal her bare breasts?rouge nipples high and pleading for my mouth?Isla tempts me. In sleep, she combats me, bewitches me. Her dreams are a sword thrust into my rib cage until its tip nicks the barest heartstring to draw blood.

Her subconscious words are the masterful, piercing point.

“Ary...” Isla murmurs, one hand straying to cup her breast, the nipple swollen?the flesh around it wilted?and the rosebud knotted and puckered.

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