Is any of it true?
With shaky fingers, I shift the blanket away. As absurd as this dress may be with all its layers and pomp and cleavage-baring style, it must have been stunning before it was ruined. Whoever made it spent countless hours stitching swirls and flowers in golden thread.
The bodice is stiff and formfitting, and it takes effort and the removal of a sleeve to peel the material past the swell of my breast so I can better examine the tender spot in the dusky light. I grimace at the mottled, deep-purplish red mark. I was expecting to find a gash, and yet my skin isn’t broken. It looks like nothing more than a nasty bruise.
But I remember that horn piercing—
“You heal fast for someone who was dead.”
I startle at the voice, yanking the blanket up to cover myself, my cheeks flushing. I recognize that chilly, calm tone. It’s the king. Zander. How did he sneak in without making a sound? And how long has he been standing in the shadows, watching me?
A key rattles the lock.
My panic swells as the door swings open with a yawning creak. He ducks as he steps through. Gone is the armor, exchanged for a sleek black ensemble, including a jacket that meets the boots at his knees. Without a helm covering most of his face, I see that he’s young—older than me, but younger than I’d picture a king to be. Not that I’ve ever given the age of a king much thought. The rest of his olive-skinned features are as hard and angular as his jaw, framed by a mane of golden-brown hair that sweeps backward off his face in waves, reaching his nape.
Cold eyes bore into me as he approaches, his hands hanging at his side, next to the scabbard that holds his sword. The jeweled dagger is also within reach, strapped to his thigh.
The thief in me wonders if I could relieve him of the smaller weapon without his notice. But the reason I succeed at depriving people of their belongings is because they don’t suspect me. Zander was a split second away from driving that dagger through my chest earlier because he suspects me of a great deal worse than theft. He thinks I murdered his parents.
That I’m still alive is a miracle.
“Stand,” he commands, stopping a mere foot away, his hands flexing.
I oblige, not wanting to give him an excuse to kill me on the spot.
He seemed a titan earlier in all that armor. Now, he looms over me, tall and broad-shouldered, but not inhumanly so. He’s no less daunting, though. And he is to be king. Even if this place and these people mean nothing to me, I sense the aura of power radiating from him. An arrogance.
His piercing gaze has settled on me. I struggle to maintain composure, focusing on the lapel of his jacket as I scramble to find the right words to convince him I’m not the Romeria he thinks I am.
He reaches for a corner of the woolen blanket, and his intentions quickly become clear.
On instinct, I curl my arms tighter against my body, and spear him with a glare of warning.
His eyebrow arches. “So now you’re modest around me?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. Show me the wound. Now.”
I’m nowhere strong enough to fight him off if he forces himself on me, and I’d rather have some control of the situation. Reluctantly, I lower the edge of the blanket, just far enough that he can see my bruised skin and nothing more. Not that he didn’t already get a good look, lurking within the shadows.
I tense as he reaches out, grazing his fingertip across where something injured me, horn or arrow. Despite his obvious hatred for me, his touch is gentle.
And despite my terror, a shiver courses through my body.
After a long moment, he pulls away. He turns his back to me and begins pacing around my tiny cell.
I take the moment to adjust my dress, wincing from the trouble.
“You’ve been busy these past weeks, playing the benevolent charmer, seeking peace between our people, all while plotting to wipe out my entire family. Don’t bother trying to deny it. We’ve questioned your servants, the ones who survived. They all confessed. And quickly, I might add.”
I have servants?
“You succeeded at killing my parents. Atticus narrowly missed an arrow through his heart, and Annika was certainly dead until you rescued her. I can’t figure that one out, but I’m sure you have your reasons. Perhaps a goodwill gesture when you realized you were being pursued? Still, I’m surprised you didn’t put up a fight.”
Put up a fight—by myself—against fifty soldiers on horses?
His heel scrapes the stone as he pivots to face me. “How was I to go? Poison as well? Or perhaps a well-placed blade while I lay next to you, sated and oblivious?”
I want to deny everything and claim my innocence, but I bite my tongue. The more he talks, the more I’ll learn. So far, I know his parents are survived by three children, and it sounds like Zander and I might have been a couple. In that case, the snipe about my modesty around him makes sense.
But what exactly were we to each other?
My gaze drifts to his mouth, to a full set of lips. Have I kissed them before?
Have those piercing eyes already seen everything beneath this dress?
Have we woken up, jumbled in each other’s limbs?
It’s disorienting to stand before a man who I have no familiarity with when he seems overly familiar with me. A man who accuses me of murdering his loved ones, with ample evidence, apparently.
“Did your father know about this scheme when he bargained with mine? Because I see Neilina’s name written all over it. Not that it matters. Unfortunately for all of you, your carefully laid plans fell apart when my parents decided to have their repast before the ceremony instead of after.” His jaw tenses. “Who within these walls conspired with you? I know you had aid, beyond that of Lord Muirn’s. Someone who knew our schedules, knew how to get past the guards. I want to know who betrayed my family. Who betrayed Islor?”
I steady my voice. “I didn’t conspire to kill—”
“Who helped you!” he roars, his hand flexing toward his dagger.
I shrink back. There’s no use. He’s already convinced of my guilt, and he won’t listen to me if I keep offering him denials. I need to find some other way to give him the truth. “Sofie.”
He falters, as if not expecting an answer so quickly, or one at all. “Sofie,” he repeats, his brow furrowing. “I do not know any Sofie.”
“That’s what she told me her name was, but maybe she was lying.”
“Who is she? A courtier? A lady-in-waiting? A servant?”
“Definitely not a servant. She has her own castle. She’s tall and thin and has long red hair. She’s beautiful. Good with a sword.”
He shakes his head. The description must not fit anyone he knows. “Where did you meet her?”
“At a charity event in Manhattan.”
“Is that in Ybaris?”
He’s a king who hasn’t heard of Manhattan? “No. It’s in New York. We met there and then flew to—”
“Flew? Are you telling me a caster was behind this?”
I frown. A what?
“Is she an elemental?”
“I don’t know?”
He mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse. “How powerful is she? Is she within our city walls now?” He fires off questions, his voice suddenly urgent.