Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(40)

“I’m not sorry he’s broken—only that it was not me doing the breaking.” Elm took a deep drink. “Does that make me wicked?”

“If it does, you and I are the same kind of wicked.”

The tangled mess in Elm’s chest eased. It surprised him to note that the hourglass was over halfway empty—that he had held a candle to the darkest part of himself, and not once had he tried to lie about it.

Ione’s brow furrowed. “Why did it take you so long to inherit a Scythe?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you inherited your mother’s Scythe. But there are four Scythe Cards. And the Rowans own them all.”

“An old lie.”

Her brows perked. “You don’t own all four Scythes?”

Elm shook his head. “We only carry three. One for the King, one for my brother, and one for me. Wherever the fourth Scythe rests, it is not with us. We make like it’s in the vault, but it isn’t.” He took a swill of wine. “I had a lot of catching up to do when I finally inherited the red Card.”

“But you did catch up,” Ione said, watching him intently. “Quickly.”

Hair fell into Elm’s eyes. He pushed it back. Cleared his throat. “I’ve forgotten whose turn it is to ask a question.”

Ione grabbed the wine out of his hand. “Yours.”

“If Hauth was hell-bent on keeping you under the Maiden’s magic, he’d likely make you hide your Card somewhere no one else might touch it. Do you remember going anywhere secluded? Somewhere in the gardens—the vaults—away from the crowd?”

“It’s no use, Prince. The only clear thing I remember is salt, and cracked stone beneath my hand.” She paused, her tongue passing back and forth over her inner bottom lip. “I have a blurry memory of spinning torchlight. I was dancing in the garden with Hauth. There were other male voices nearby. When Hauth dropped my hand and I fell, they laughed. Grasped at me.”

Venom pooled in Elm’s mouth. Whatever Ione saw in his face, it was enough to make her pause. “I am unharmed, Prince. All in one piece. One icy, heartless piece.”

“That isn’t funny.”

“Don’t grit your teeth so hard. I didn’t expect we’d discover my Card within the hour.” Her eyes dipped to the hourglass. “There are a few moments left. Let’s talk about something different. Something besides my Maiden.”

Elm rubbed his palms on his knees. “Ask me anything.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two vexing years. And you?”

“The same. Though I imagine my years were easier earned than yours.” Her gaze shifted over his black tunic, then back to his face.

Elm studied those hazel eyes. “The way you look at me from time to time—it’s as if you’re searching me. What exactly are you looking for?”

“Maybe I find you handsome.”

His lips quirked. “But that’s not the only reason you look at me.”

Ione’s expression was smooth, carved out of marble, giving nothing away. “And me, Prince? Do you find me beautiful?”

Elm’s laugh chafed his throat. “There’s not a person in this castle who doesn’t.”

“That’s half an answer.”

“So was yours.”

Her eyes narrowed. Slowly, Ione said, “I’ve been looking for Hauth in your face. For temper or cruelty or indifference.” She leaned forward. “But I can’t find any. I see guile, tiredness, fear. Anger, without a trace of violence.” She drew in a breath. “You are both Rowans—and less similar than I ever imagined.”

Elm felt something deep within him stir. He leaned back, resting his weight on his arms, ready to steer the conversation as far away from his brother as it could go. “You said you can’t feel anything anymore. Yet I’ve watched your cheeks go pink. You feel heat, cold. Pain. What else can you feel?”

The light in the cellar was dim—but not dim enough to mask the faint flush in Ione’s cheeks. “I c-can’t—” She snapped her mouth shut, tried again. “N-n-noth—”

The Chalice didn’t let her lie. What intrigued Elm was that she’d tried to. “Don’t fight it.”

She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and scowled. For a moment, she looked like she might waste her breath again on lying. But then she took another drink of wine and said, “Desire. I can still feel desire.”

Elm sat up on an exhale. “And how, Miss Hawthorn, did you discover that?”

“It’s my turn to ask.”

He opened his hands, offering himself up.

“Do you know where my mother and brothers are?”

The right question. But the wrong choice of words. “No.” Energy pooled in Elm’s palms. He tapped his fingertips on the floor. Wine. He needed more wine. “What kind of desire?” He dragged the cup out of Ione’s hands and refilled it, watching her over the rim as he drank. “Spare no detail.”

He didn’t miss the way her eyes flew to the hourglass. The sand was almost gone. She could wait it out—punish him with silence and not answer the question. He deserved it, of course, the subject of desire decidedly unPrincely—

“My skin feels overwarm. Especially here,” Ione said, running her thumb down the center of her mouth. “And here.” Her fingers trailed over ripped fabric below her collarbone. “Here.” She lowered her hand, pressing it into her dress, just below her navel. Her eyes lifted, crashing into Elm’s. “Between my legs. A thrumming, unquiet ache. A cruel trick of the Maiden, I think. My body is the same as it ever was. I can feel all the physical sensations of attraction. But my heart remains...locked.”