Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(14)

But the only sounds that reached Elm were the sharp flurry of his own thoughts and the ruckus of Ione’s chattering teeth. If Ravyn was in the castle—if he was using his Nightmare Card—Elm was left out of the conversation.

“Hurry,” he said, throwing himself at the door with the fox carved into the mahogany frame. His swollen fingers were clumsy at the latch. When the door swung open, he ushered Ione in with a shove.

“What—”

“Quiet.” He closed the door abruptly. “This hall in crawling with Physicians.”

Ione rushed to the hearth, the fire well tended. A small moan escaped her throat as she hunched next to the flames, firelight dancing over her skin. She reached her hands as close to the heat as she dared. “Is he g-going to live?” she said. “Your b-brother?”

Elm couldn’t lock the door. Ravyn kept the castle keys on his belt, and Elm had lost his personal key ages ago. He pulled the hickory chair that had been in his room since boyhood and leaned it up against the door, its legs creaking a feeble complaint. “I haven’t consulted a Prophet on the matter,” he said, fumbling with his clothes.

His belt fell with a clang. Next off was his soaking cloak. His jerkin and tunic were harder to strip, but not as difficult as his undershirt, wet silk clinging to the lean lines of his stomach and back. When he was free, he wore only his wool pants.

He dropped his wet clothes in a heap on the floor and kicked off his boots, grabbing a flagon of wine from the table.

“Here,” he said, crouching next to Ione at the fire. “It’ll help with the cold. Drink.”

Ione’s gaze flashed across Elm’s skin, over his shoulders and down his chest, finally landing on the flagon. Her blue lips drew into a line.

“Do you see any poison up my sleeve?” Elm demanded, gesturing at his bareness. “It’s just wine.”

When Ione still did not drink, Elm brought the flagon to his lips and swallowed deeply.

The wine slid down his throat, planting small fires on its way to his stomach. “See? Still breathing.” He held the flagon out once more. “Now drink.”

Ione took it, lifting it to her lips. Elm noted the slope of her neck—the way her bottom lip hugged the flagon’s mouth.

He turned away and tossed another log on the fire.

Toes inching out from beneath her dress toward the flames, Ione said, “Something tells me it wouldn’t be too great a hardship, poisoning me, if you wanted to. You seem the type who would resort to poisons.”

Elm snatched the flagon back and took another pull. “You don’t know a thing about me, Hawthorn.”

Ione unfolded herself and stood. Her gaze lowered to her dress, the once-white fabric dark and stained. She reached behind her back, fumbling with the lacings. “I need your help, Prince. The knots have tightened with rainwater.”

“And you mistook me for your maid?”

“Don’t tell me you’re uncomfortable undressing a woman.”

Elm’s insides yanked. He didn’t move, glaring into Ione Hawthorn’s unreadable eyes, unsure if it would anger her more if he helped or refused her. He wanted very much to make her angry. Wanted to see what the Maiden would let her feel.

When he stood to full height, he buried her in shadow.

Ione’s eyes flickered over his bare chest. She turned, presenting the back of the dress, her shoulders rising and falling as she waited.

The lacing was intricate. And Elm’s fingers were swollen and bruised. A blade would have to do. He retrieved one of his ceremonial knives from the heap on the floor, then came behind Ione. When he slipped his left hand beneath her wet hair, his knuckles dragging across the nape of her neck.

It was surprisingly heavy, her hair. Dense. Long enough to wrap around his fist and tug.

Elm pushed the thought away, moving the mass of yellow-gold hair over Ione’s shoulder. With his right hand, he gripped the knife. “Don’t move.”

He tore the tip of the blade through the dress’s lacing. When the skirt, then bodice, fell to the floor, Elm bit the inside of his cheek and stepped back. “I hope it wasn’t a favorite.”

Ione stepped away. “Your father gave it to me on Equinox, after my engagement to Hauth was announced.” She glanced at the dress with marked disinterest. “Now it’s for the fire.”

The hearth was the only light in the room. Still, it was not difficult to distinguish the outline of Ione’s body, all her curves—her starts and stops—beneath her damp silk undergarment.

Elm forced his eyes back to the fire. “And the Maiden Card my father gave you? I assumed you had it tucked away in that,” he said, turning his nose at the ruined pile of fabric.

Ione twisted her hair, wringing out the last of the rainwater. “You might have searched me for it. Hauth would have.”

Elm’s mouth pressed into a hard line at his brother’s name. “Our methodologies are dissimilar, his and mine.” He stole a glance at Ione, only to whip his eyes back to the hearth. “There’s a chest at the foot of my bed. Take anything you like.”

The iron hinges creaked open. Ione shuffled through his clothes, pausing every so often to run her hands over the material. “You wear a lot of black,” she murmured. “For a Prince.”

Elm said nothing. When he turned, Ione had pulled a dark wool tunic over her head. It fell past her knees, her frame lost under the excess fabric.