Page 50 of The King's Queen

Rowan’s face is that of a warrior, and I had almost forgotten that beneath all his wit and charm, this is the world he grew up in. The filthy streets, fighting for his safety and his mother’s. A beautiful face hiding the killer beneath, willing to do what has to be done.

That same face turns towards where the dead soldier had cried out, his cooling finger still pointing towards where I am being dragged away with a dagger to my throat. Wild fear enters his eyes before it is smothered by icy and unforgiving rage. I can still see two of him as he runs closer, sword out, slashing through opponents as if they were nothing more than clay. Despite the various wounds I see littering his body, no one touches him now. The sight brings some sense back to me. Our eyes meet in confirmation. I will fight. I know how to fight.

My head slams into my assailant’s so hard I see stars, and I know I’m only worsening my injuries, but I grit my teeth. I don’t waste the moment as the momentum of the swing takes him off his balance. With his knife no longer baring down on my throat, I hook my foot around the back of his knee and pull. The man falls heavily, buying just a second for my escape. I make to run as Rowan comes closer, but the man’s free arm juts out and grabs my own, pulling me down with him. I spin, narrowly avoiding his waiting blade.

Too far. Rowan is still too far.

We grapple in the dirt, my damned skirts getting in the way as I try to kick and fight. My assailant notices and flips me so I’m pinned beneath him. His knees are braced on either side of my hips, dagger held high above my heart.

“Pica a rebvela!” he cries.

For the rebellion.

I brace myself for the steel to bury itself in my heart. A whisper of prayer to Deun,make it quick.

The sweet sting of death never comes. Something warm and sticky splatters against my bare arms. My face and my raised hands.

Daring to open my eyes, the commander stands above me now, kicking the headless corpse aside and grabbing the dagger before it can fall into me.

“Mei Reinhavich, are you hurt?” He grips my arms, his gaze inspecting. Vigorously, I shake my head despite the pounding in it and the shallow cuts lacing my palms and back. None of it is serious, not compared to the deep gash that runs over his own eyelid down to his jaw.

“I’ll take her, Raiko.” Rowan answers now, having slain the last few villains in his way. Without waiting for confirmation, he grabs my arm and pulls me to his side, setting off again towards the carriage.

“I told you to stay in the carriage.”

“If you couldn’t tell I didn’t have much of a say in the matter.” I retort, though I duck behind his arm as he reaches out to parry against another attack. They battle it out for a moment, with me pressed against his blood-soaked back. I can’t tell if it’s his or not. Maybe it’s mine.

“It doesn’t matter now.” He groans as he delivers the killing blow. More blood sprays across us both. So much blood. “We need to get you out of here.”

We are at the carriage now. I spy my missing blade by the front wheel and duck to pick it up, coming face to face with a rebel attacker. I scream and drive my foot into his face before I realize he’s already dead. Rowan spins from where he works on one of the horses’ harnesses, cutting it loose and leading it over.

“I’m not leaving without you,” I protest. It is one thing to hide, another to run.

“You don’t have a choice,” he growls as he grabs my waist, those same steady and gentle hands lifting me up onto the bare back of that gray mare. I shriek at him to put me down, but he doesn’t answer. Just slaps the mare’s rump with a small smile that says, ‘I’ll come back for you.’ Some deep tug in my heart tells me he won’t.

The mare startles forward, from a dead halt to a canter, and then into a frantic gallop. I try to pull on her mane, willing her to stop, to turn around, to bring him back with me. But I’ve always been a mediocre rider, even with tack. Now here, riding bareback and completely exhausted… it’s all I can do to stay on. My legs slide back, my rear coming off her back. I bury my fist in her mane and clamp my legs down with my sore muscles barking with pain at the effort.

We make it maybe fifty feet into the woods before I’m tackled from the back of my horse. She squeals and rears before running down the path we were on. The jagged stones and twigs stab into my bare back, tearing open flesh and stealing the air from my lungs.

“You run,” he grunts, his voice younger than the other man. His deep brown hood falls back to reveal only wide eyes rimmed with hate.

“You run like a coward while foolish men stay and die for you. Are their lives worth less than yours?” He hisses through clenched teeth, his hands wrapping themselves around my neck. I gasp as he squeezes harder with each word.

“N- no.” Searing tears burn my eyes and cheeks as red starts to cloud my vision. I’m going to die. I’m going to die in these woods, a hateful coward. And those soldiers. They died for nothing.

“Don’t waste your tears on me,” he says reaching back. I note how his hands shake. Something dark glints in his hands. I force myself to stare him in the eye, praying for some glimpse of humanity. “I will enjoy feeling your heart stop against my blade.”

“Don’t.” I try with my last breath. A plea.

Too late. The rebel raises his blade and plunges it down.

Then his jaw slackens, his eye wide with terror as I ram my blade into his gut, his own still hovering above me. He begins to fall over, removing his other hand from my throat as he slips.

I catch him in my arms, unable to stop the tears as they flow freely now. He gasps, open mouthed as I hold him, lowering him onto the ground.

“Shh, it’s alright,” I murmur. “It’s all going to be okay.”

“F-for me. But not… not for you.” He spits on my face. I don’t bother to wipe it away. “You will rue the day your wicked flesh fails you. When you rot to hell, I’ll be waiting. Weallwill be waiting.” And as if that last curse, a promise, took all that was left of his life, he fell limp in my arms. With trembling fingers, I brush his hood back, the hair from his eyes. With a startled cry, I drop my hand as if burned. He was probably about fifteen years old. So young. So hateful. And so dead. Dead by my own blood crusted hands.

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