Kiala times my breath to steps. “On the third count, you speak. On the fifth, you laugh softly. On the seventh, you aim your eyes two degrees left, away from those you speak to, so it appears you do not crave being seen.”
I nod.
Every day, I feel more like a tamed beast. Like the bears and moose they ride through the valley.
Then one morning, three days before the masked ball and six days before my wedding, when I have learned how to bow without feeling my ribs rip at my skin from the inside, the door to my room opens again without warning. Thorne steps in. He does not bow.
No one does. Not yet. Maybe not ever without the presence of my future husband. I am merely a human consort—I will never be a queen.
Kiala’s mouth flattens. Merlina’s eyebrows lift, wary. Eslina sets her brush down so carefully that it makes no sound at all.
“Arlet,” Thorne says to me without giving a title. Since the night I asked about Arion’s last wife, he has withdrawn. He is cruel in front of others and indifferent in private. I resent both versions. “A decision has been reached regarding your Fuegorra.”
The room cools. My hand goes to the stone on reflex—as if I could shield it by thinking. “What?”
I’m transported back to that moment in the bathing rooms, when my ladies-in-waiting had talked about it last. I thought then that I would just be given extra jewelry or glamour. What kind of decision could’ve possibly been made?
“Don’t act stupid, my dear,” he says, already turning, already certain I will follow. “It will be removed. The court may tolerate a foreign bride. It will not tolerate a foreign god set in the center of her chest.”
“I—” The word breaks apart on my tongue.
“Enough,” Thorne bites.
“What of the Curse Mark?” I demand, trying to change thesubject. “You put it there. It is an imperfection that refuses to heal, might I add.”
His green eyes narrow. “That is a mark that binds you to His Majesty. Without your troll stone, it will likely finally heal and remain until the day you die. ”
Lucky me, Cursed One chirps as I try to think of something else to make them stop.
You could have a worse host body, I retort.
“Dress her,” Thorne tells my attendants. “We are expected below.”
“Wait—”
Merlina pivots as if she has been waiting for the order all morning. “Another high-neck for now,” she decides. “Kiala, fetch the cloak. Eslina—powder.”
I resist them. Pulling my arm out of Merlina’s grasp.“No!”
They move around me in a practiced dance. Eslina’s fingers are gentle where the others are not. “It will be quick,” she murmurs softly.
How the hell does she know?
“The trolls told me it would kill me if I took it out,” I blurt out. In truth, I think that’s what they said, but I can’t remember.
My eyes burn, and I back away from all of them. My mind is weak, and I am just so fucking hungry. I know Mother Liana had said something about survival, but perhaps that was just under the mountain? “You can’t do this!”
Thorne freezes with that same predatory grace he used when he cut me open on the boat. This is the traitor, the one I wish I could scratch the face off of with my manicured nails.
“Can’t? This is the elven empire. I have authority from the king, your future husband and master. We will do what we want, or as a wedding gift, we will start bringing children from that asinine school in Enduvida and sacrifice them for the wolves. I’ll give you the front row seat.”
What the hell? He’s never been this bad toward me. I recoil, shaking. My maternal instinct comes to me, lashing out like a bearcornered by hunters. This is too far. I don’t care if he has to exaggerate in the company of others.
“Fuck you, half-blood,” I spit.
His eyes snap to me with instant white-hot fury, and I am afraid. That is the face of Mrath’s assassin.
Then he spits in my face as my attendants watch. On instinct, my hand goes up to clear the viscous wetness from my skin. The others do nothing to step in. Nothing to help.