Page 93 of The King's Queen

My head rests comfortable on Rowan’s chest as I tilt it back to eye him. He smiles down, his gaze wistful and in awe.

“The dance isn’t over yet, milady.” He spins me around, his hand never leaving my back.

All guilt and anger dispels from my heart immediately, as it always does when he is near. It is as if his aura is so light, so loving, that no darkness can find me here.

With a lightness in my heart, I place my hand in his and curtsy deeply. My skirts billow out across the dance floor like starlight sprawling across the night sky. Rowan’s lips are slightly parted as I rise, but he quickly closes them with a smirk as the music intensifies. I place my hand on his shoulder with equal cunning before we step into the dance.

My eyes unknowingly dart to the other patrons. Their eyes are narrowed behind their masks, all focusing on me. I don’t need to read their lips to know what they’re saying. About me. About him. He’s the hero, and I’m the whore.

Rowan’s grip shifts from my back to my waist, tightening with every extra inch of skin he claims. His lips caress the outer shell of my ear as he leans forward to whisper.

“I’m growing rather jealous of the attention you’re giving to everyone else.” Heat creeps up the back of my neck. His hand releases my waist, allowing me to circle around him, the hem of my skirt swishing softly against his dark suit. When I return, he grips me hastily, careful not to apply too much pressure.

“Can’t you see them whispering?”

“Not when all I see is you.” I look up, dazed, to notice a small tinge of color on his cheeks. Rowan, the Mercenary King, is blushing because of me. “The most beautiful woman in this kingdom with two handsome men at her beck and call. It’s jealousy, love.”

I bite my lip, my heart now racing for another reason. His words have a sharp satiric undertone, but his face is soft and genuine. The thought emboldens me to lean forward right as the tempo increases. From the corner of my eye, I can see Lucius and my father watching from the dais. Lucius’s face is pinched in poorly concealed anger. My father isn’t even looking at me. No, he’s staring right at Rowan.

The dance soon tugs my attention back to the Noiteron. Small beads of sweat prick along his brow, our steps moving in an elegant frenzy. We spin past the other partygoers, my gown brushing against the other women’s, leaving stardust on their silk. Light exudes from my every movement until I’m glowing, though it can be blamed on a trick of the light. In a moment, Rowan sweeps me up in his arms, lifting me above his head while he pivots. I toss my head back and laugh, my heart growing lighter by the second.

As my feet brush the ground again, I still feel weightless, Rowan’s arms wrapped firmly around my waist, holding me as I tip backwards. My impromptu move has my hair grazing the ground and blood rushing to my head, but Rowan supports me through the dip. I never fear the fall.

The song ends as he pulls me back upright, and I use the moment to whisper in his ear “Meet me in the hallway past the band.” His hand squeezes my hip softly to let me know he heard me, then he releases his grip with a bow. I echo his sentiments before whisking off towards the outskirts of the ballroom again. Torin greets me with a knowing smirk, but my gaze easily drifts from him to my father. Ophelus stands as if in a trance, his gaze following Rowan. Before he can go to him, the mercenary slips behind the harpist and out into the hall. The king sits, but his gaze lingers, faraway.

When I manage to sneak past the guards, the moon has already raised high in the sky. Any moment now, Kya and Amír will have snuck past the guards and laid our distraction. Within the hour, I will finally be free of this place.

The thought chases my feet from the floor as I sprint down the hall, the sounds of the party fading with each step. All the air leaves my lungs as I round the corner, and a familiar pair of arms wrap around my midsection. My hands fly to my mouth to suppress my laughter as Rowan lifts me into the air. I throw my head back, basking in the safety of his grip and the feeling of flight.

My feet touch the ground all too soon, and Rowan looks down at me with a sly grin. Before he can part his lips to utter some sarcastic quip, I grab him by the wrist and drag him down the corridor after me.

“Come on, there’s something I want to show you.”

The mercenary follows silently, our footsteps not making a sound. It was a perk of my months in stealth training, and years on his part. He follows me through each winding turn we take, a maze of hallways designed to confuse any intruders. Each passage varies in width and height, some ending in dead ends, others splitting in two. I expertly pick my way through each, my path already memorized years ago.

We finally reach a hall with no lights; I step into the hall. Rowan steps close behind me, splaying his fingers across my stomach and pulling me close to his chest. I smile, then pull forth light from that well within my soul. A mist appears above us, rising to illuminate the room with a dim glow. Not enough to alert anyone of our presence, but enough that the panic gripping my chest eases. The magic hardly feels draining anymore; rather, each time I release a burst of light, energy flows through my veins. My skin electrifies, enhanced by Rowan’s fingertips kneading delicate patterns into my abdomen.

I spin and toss my arms out to the side. “Tada! Welcome to our hidden tapestry room.”

Behind me rests a large room that most would recognize as the palace’s first ballroom. By now the architecture is crumbling, some mold growing in the crevices where the floor had cracked from one too many dances. Spiraling up the walls are thousands upon thousands of tapestries. Some fray at the edges or are missing full chunks of pattern, while others remain perfectly intact.

“I thought it would have a more formal name.” Rowan raises an eyebrow, feigning being unimpressed. “Like super-secret hidden tapestry room.” His straight nose scrunches, mimicking my own expression. I use it as an invitation to drag him away from the door towards the first piece of art.

“Irene hated these tapestries, probably because I loved them so much. These stories were my escape from whatever hell she had concocted that day. I’d wander the halls staring at them, losing myself in the world they presented.” I laugh softly. “She had them all moved here, and the doors barred when she found out. But no locks could keep me out.” I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively, and Rowan bites back a laugh.

We pause in front of one of my favorites, an older piece depicting a knight and a princess, the villainous dragon laying slain in the background. I both hated and loved the way the blood coated the knight’s sword when I was younger, but now I lay those conflicting feelings to rest.

“When I was a kid, I loved the idea of some knight coming in and saving me from my mother. I wished life was simple like that, but as I got older, I wished I was the one holding the sword. I wished I could save myself and save the knight from the struggle of killing the dragon.”

I had thought Blaine was that knight. I thought he was the one to save me, but I realized too late I needed to save myself so I wouldn’t need to save him as well. Now I’ve lost my knight. In some ways, the dragon won.

Rowan clears his throat. “I have another idea. What if the princess and the knight saved each other?” He shoots me a crooked grin. “Maybe the knight was really a murderous bastard who wouldn’t get out of his own head, and the princess needed a way out of her life. Maybe he freed her from the dragon, but she freed him from his.”

A wild, uncontrollable grin threatens to split my face in half as Rowan speaks. I watch his every mannerism, his pinched brows, crooked lifting of his mouth, and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

“I like that.”

We flit around the abandoned ballroom, Rowan following me from tapestry to tapestry. He listens thoughtfully, his eyes picking apart the story behind them from my expression alone before I even speak. Still, he listens to my ramblings, occasionally offering his own amendments.

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