I’m doing important work, and I can’t allow anything to bring me off my path.
I was the one who pulled Highbell out of debt and made it into the symbol for gleaming wealth and prosperity. And now, Malina dares to test me? She is nothing but a bitter, useless woman, unable to even give me an heir. She’s lucky I married her in the first place and allowed her to keep her crown.
Memories rush in—of my father, of the village children sneering at me, at the parish tossing me out for being unclean, at shopkeepers whispering “bastard” wherever I went.
After all these years of doing my duty and trying to breed that cold fish of a woman, and this is the thanks I get.
I knew Malina was the barren one.
Now, I’ve bred a saddle. My teeth grind again and again.
Yet, as my mind works through these strings that have been added to my grasp, I see possibilities of new knots. Knots that might be exactly what I need to tighten my reign.
A child can be a powerful thing. After all, there’s nothing quite like a baby to endear the royal family to the public. It might even help solidify my rule here. If only it weren’t a damn bastard.
I straighten up, hands falling at my sides as I smile.
No, what I need is an heir.
Chapter 5
AUREN
I jerk awake and sit up in a panicky rush.
For a moment, I’m not sure where I am. There isn’t a black tent pulled taut above me, no golden ceiling gleaming. Instead, I stare up at lavender fabric draped over the four posters of the unfamiliar bed I’m lying in.
Everything rushes back to me. Where I am, who I was with. Luckily, the space beside me is cold, and the quiet of the room tells me that I’m alone. The only proof that someone has been in here is the gentle crackle of the fire at the opposite end of the room.
After being surrounded by Fourth’s soldiers, the quiet privacy of the room is almost daunting. I’d grown used to Rip’s steady breaths as he slept on his pallet. I’d become accustomed to the smell of the wet leather, of the coals smoldering between us.
I look around the richly adorned room, eyes settling on the pillow where Midas rested his head, and yet, all I can see is Rip’s dark silhouette from across the tent, see the flash of his ink-stained eyes.
I rub a hand over my chest, because there’s an ache in my heart that has nothing to do with Midas. I try to tell myself that the taste of betrayal isn’t clogging my throat, that pain isn’t stemming from a male with roots along his jaw and a stranger’s green eyes. “Forget him,” I murmur to myself.
Deal with Midas. Forget about Ravinger. That’s what I need to do.
Taking a deep breath, I compose myself, forcefully shoving away all my emotions into a little box where I can slam the lid closed. There’s no room for distractions. I have to cauterize the pieces of my bleeding heart, because I have plans to make.
I groan as I roll back my stiff shoulders, arms popping as I stretch them overhead. I have no idea how long I’ve been sleeping, but slices of light are cutting through the edges behind the thick curtains that hang over the glass balcony doors.
I yank back the golden blankets and stand up, but as soon as my bare feet hit the carpet, they grow wet, gold instantly soaking into the white. I should’ve slept with socks on, but I suppose it doesn’t matter now. One good thing about being with Midas is that the evidence of my power is associated with him, so I don’t have to hide it.
As groggy and sore as I feel, I luckily have the wherewithal to control my willful magic enough that I don’t turn the rug solid. Finding a pair of slippers waiting for me, I slip them on before I go in search of clothes.
Somber sunlight greets me as I step through the doorway of the dressing room, my skin tingling faintly as I cross through the weak beams of light. All around, a new wardrobe waits for me, dozens of gowns hanging up in varying shades of purple.
I choose one with a low sewn back so that I’ll be able to have my ribbons out. The moment I touch it, gold drips from my hands and soaks into the velvety fabric like ink to paper.
Inside the bureau, I snag some gloves and thick fleece stockings, but I can’t find any shifts to go under my dress. Instead, I find piles and piles of frilly lace. I frown as I hold one pair up, and it takes me entirely too long to realize that these things are supposed to be underwear.
“Well, these can’t possibly be comfortable,” I mumble to myself. Unless I want to be bare beneath my dress, it’s the only choice I have.
With a resigned sigh, I strip off my night dress before pulling on the tiny scraps. Walking over to the mirror, my brows rise as I turn to see myself, admiring the way the dainty lace hugs my curves.