Page 24 of The King's Queen

“You must want out very badly if you’re willing to give me this.” He eyes me warily out from the corner of his eye.

“I trust you,” I choke out, noticing now how truly dark it is. No one would see if something were to happen to me right now.

“You shouldn’t.” He takes my hand then and pulls me towards a dark horse. “Not until I give you cause to, anyway. But after tonight, you will have enough over me to even the playing field again.”

“I just handed you my life and countless others’ on a silver platter, I’m not sure there’s much you could offer me that would put us in any form of even.” I slide into the saddle behind him, ignoring every point of contact between us. I want to be sick, right here over his fine horse and leather-clad body.

“And I’m about to do the same.” Is all he says before he urges the horse into a canter, and soon, a gallop. With a small cry, I cross two fingers across my chest in a prayer to the gods to ward off evil. Rowan is still seated before me, so clearly the gods are choosing not to listen today.

The wind draws tears from my eyes as I cling to his back, praying for everything to be over. Through bleary peaks over his shoulder, I can see Belam in the distance, and the bright lights of the West. Raucous laughter dances with sophisticated music. The swirls of scarlet silks and the satin slippers soon to be discarded in the corner of a ballroom. And Rowan in the center of it all, the shadows clinging to his body as if they are a second skin. Night bows to him, but the stars reflect in his eyes, saving him from the appearance of a monster. Perhaps an old god instead.

The chill drives me closer, and I bury my face in his back. His shoulders rumble with laughter and I’m glad that the night covers my cowering crimson face. After what feels like an eternity has passed, my guide halts our mount. The wind dies from my ears, and I am suddenly very aware to how close I am huddled to him.

“We’re here.”

I remain still, waiting for a moment, until Rowan clears his throat and jerks his chin towards the ground. I dismount clumsily, my legs still shaking from the long ride. Rowan smoothly leaps down from our mount, landing silently upon the rocks.

“Just this way.” He brings the reins over the horse’s neck and grabs my elbow with his other hand. He guides my stumbling form through the brush, and I note how deep in the woods we are. How silently stalking the night is. If Rowan notices my trepidation, he doesn’t speak of it. He picks his way confidently across the rocks, appearing at home with the dark.

I nearly run into him when he stops abruptly and unlocks a door. I hadn’t even seen the building before us. Blood rushes in my ears. The lock clicks then falls to the ground. Light floods from the door as it opens, temporarily blinding me. In a few quick seconds, Rowan pulls us both into the building and locks the door behind us. A low whistle blows through the room.

“And here I was thinking you got caught.” A short, young woman with generous curves steps out from a doorway, dressed in nothing but a silk robe. She tuts her tongue in my direction, and I recognize her as the beautiful maid from the palace. The one who stumbled in calling Rowan ‘Lord’. “Lovely to see you again Verosa.”

“Go get dressed, we have business to discuss.” Rowan huffs irately. “And I never get caught.”

The woman rolls her lovely hazel eyes but leaves the room, only to return moments later dressed, though personally I think the robe covered more. A single sash of crimson fabric covers her breasts and exposes her midriff. A matching skirt of the same color hangs low across her hips, accentuated by a chunky gold belt. Her right hand draws my attention first, with it being covered with whorls of red ink, and I note them as traditional Vari markings. It is a tattoo of the individual’s greatest desire, marked when they come of age. Only, hers looks smudged. Then I realize that it’s paint, not a tattoo.

What catches my eye second is a thick bandage wrapping around her hips, poking out just above the waistband of her skirt. Those thugs’ words ring back in my head from a few nights ago. The night where I met Rowan.

“You’re his bitch!” I say before I can stop myself. Rowan smacks his forehead with his palm in remembrance while the woman quirks an eyebrow upward.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just something Mavis’ men said, Kya.” Rowan assuages the woman, Kya, though she doesn’t look upset. Her face is the perfect picture of amusement.

“I like you,” she murmurs, stepping close enough that I can smell the vanilla and cinnamon perfume upon her neck. “But you’d do well to remember that I’m no one’s bitch.”

“Except Amír’s.” Another voice, male this time, piques from a darkened corner. A man, looking no older than Kya, sits fiddling with something in his lap. His rich and dark skin tone is accented with beads of sweat across his brow, and his eyes are of the darkest shade of gold.

My face flushes with embarrassment as Kya turns her attention to the man in the corner, her mouth gaping open before she swallows back whatever sarcastic quip she was preparing.

“Classy Derrín.” She clucks her tongue. “Verosa, Derrín. My little brother.”

“Twin brother. But yes, younger.” Derrín corrects, not bothering to look up from his lap. Unlike Kya, he wears plain clothing, a simple linen tunic tucked into brown pants. His sock-clad feet tap impatiently against the floor.

“Pleasure.” I nod, my confusion growing by the second. Who were these people, why did Rowan think I needed to meet them, and who was this Amír that they all kept referring to?

And why was Rowan looking at Kya like that?

His eyes found her supple form the moment we entered, and though it should mean nothing to me, I still felt… angry. A spark of something molten boiled deep in my gut, something that I didn’t deserve to feel. Jealousy.

Rowan is an insufferable pain in the ass at best, a murderous criminal at worst. Sure, he is handsome in that roguish and somehow charming way, but nonetheless, to feel jealous? I love Blaine, and I am engaged to Lucius. I don’t need to feel jealous over Rowan too. He is a small string attached to a larger picture, a single stitch in my tapestry. He means nothing to me.

And yet, this aching feeling only intensifies when the door is thrown open again. A tall and elegant figure breezes into the room. Her face is hidden by a deep burgundy cloak, but I can already tell by the fine contours of her figure that it is beautiful as well. Her long legs cover the distance between her and us in moments before she was stands before Rowan and me.

With a dramatic toss, the cloak falls, and long scarlet locks tumble free past her shoulders. A single streak of white dashes through the red, and I fight the urge to gasp when I see her beautiful face.

Her eyes are an even deeper shade of emerald than Rowan’s, a shade of green that I didn’t know could exist. They are framed by thick red lashes, with a perfectly placed splatter of freckles painted across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her fair complexion is marbled with whorls of skin as pale as snow, and I notice the pattern continues across the visible skin along her arms as well.

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