Nectar of the Wicked (Deadly Divine, #1) (34)

My very own rooms.

Rooms inside of a royal house that would soon call me their queen. Me. A nameless changeling who’d spent her entire life cowering from a woman behind the pages of books.

Giddy exhilaration had me smothering another bubbling laugh.

It was then I realized that I’d almost believed all of this to be a lavish and vastly imaginative dream I’d concocted from desperation and hope. That at any given moment, I would be shaken awake by Rolina’s rage.

As I stared at the slim door snug between rows of bookshelves, a door I knew connected to my future husband’s rooms, it began to cement heavily in my bones.

This was wonderfully real.





Not an hour later, Olin, the steward, indeed delivered me to dinner.

But I hadn’t expected to dine alone.

The grand room upon the first floor sat next to a library I longed to visit. And it was too large, too much oak and golden candlelit darkness, for one creature.

I’d bathed and cleaned my hair with vanilla and honeysuckle soaps in a tub large enough to swim in, and I’d wondered if Florian had known we’d used similar soaps, though far less lovely, in the apartment. I hadn’t the heart to inform him that I’d rather never use scents Rolina had once adored again.

She could no longer rob me of luxuries or anything else, including manners.

I’d then perused the dressing chamber with my eyes bulging and my exploring fingers trembling as they’d swept along all the many stunning fabrics. Velvet, silks, the softest cottons and chiffon...

All of the gowns were hard for me to absorb, let alone decide on what to wear.

I’d settled on a long-sleeved navy-blue number that was most likely a nightgown due to the looser bodice and the figure-hugging silk. I’d paired it with my coat, although it probably did not suit, when Olin had knocked upon the door to escort me downstairs.

Stiffly, I picked at the delicious serving of lamb soaked in mint gravy. Even the beans here were different—larger and juicier.

The steward stood outside the dining room, utterly silent. When I’d greeted him upon opening the door to my rooms to find him with his hands clasped behind his back, he hadn’t returned it.

He wore a similar uniform to the warriors who’d escorted us to the manor, sans the armored and bulky coat. His dark-blue waistcoat was lined in black and without a single crease nor a speck of lint, his matching trousers the same.

His silver hair was cropped close to his scalp. His mustache was impeccably trimmed. That, and his stubborn silence and posture, said this was a male who took his responsibility and loyalty to the Hellebore family seriously.

Perhaps too seriously, I thought, when he entered the dining room upon realizing I’d lost interest in finishing my meal.

“Is it not to your liking?” he said in a crisp tone that conveyed someone like me ought to be grateful and finish every morsel.

“It was incredible, thank you.” I offered a weak smile. “My stomach might need time to adjust to such a large serving, for I’m already indecently full.”

“The king will be displeased,” he said tightly.

I feigned looking around the large and narrow room. My eyes settled at the head of the table where I knew Florian would sit if he’d deigned to join me. “He is not here,” I needlessly said with a stronger smile.

Then I sipped my water and stood, collecting my plate and crystal glass.

The steward’s disapproving look fell into a scowl when I walked the long length of the oak slabbed table to the doors. “Which way to the kitchen?”

Olin sputtered. “You may leave that for the staff to collect.”

“I don’t mind. I would like to see it, and seeing as the king is busy, I’ve nothing else to do but explore.” I lifted my shoulders. “Would you care to show me?”

He glared at me for sweltering seconds that should have made me reconsider irritating him more than my mere presence evidently already did. Then the steward sighed and marched out into the hall. “This way.”

He walked at such a brisk pace that I struggled to keep up, the cutlery threatening to slide from my plate.

At the opposite end of the first floor, we descended a steep and rocky flight of stairs. The kitchen was located a level below ground. Starlight still crept in through the slicing of windows squashed right below the ceiling.

Along the far wall, steam rose from sinks filled with soapy water and pots bubbling on stovetops. An island bench stood large and center in the humid room, fires burning beneath for yet another stovetop above.

Scraps overflowed from two pails by the door directly opposite the one we stood before. The other was open, giving way to stone stairs that presumably twirled up to the gardens astride the manor.

Regret kept me rooted in the doorway.

A ginormous male flitted from the sinks to the stoves with the grace of a trained dancer and barked orders in a melodious voice at two youths attempting to keep up with his needs.

Olin gave me a smug look.

I refrained from bristling and cautiously stepped forward. I had to see this through now. “Uh, hello.”

A young male dropped something on his foot, muttering a curse that sounded like, “Tullia.”

All activity came to a crashing standstill. Three sets of similar eyes fell on me at once.

Olin cleared his throat pointedly. “Our guest would like to return her meal.”