“At least that would be a fair fight.”
I threw every ounce of fury I had into the two middle fingers I flung in his direction. I stalked past the slack-jawed guards into my room and slammed the door behind me.
I stood frozen for several seconds, my chest heaving with livid breaths. The voice was still chanting in my head, riling me up, urging me to fight, fight, fight.
Suddenly, I went still.
On the other side of the door, Luther’s voice thundered in the hallway. He was more irate than I’d ever heard him—more emotional than I’d believed him capable of being. I leaned my ear against the wood to listen.
“I should put all four of your heads on a pike for treason. I just assaulted the Queen, and you cowards stood there and watched me do it. The next time someone lays a hand on her and you don’t kill them where they stand, I’ll carve out your eyeballs and feed them to the fucking hounds. It doesn’t matter if it’s me or the Regent or Blessed Mother Lumnos herself. Do your damn jobs and protect our Queen.”
Quiet, muffled acknowledgements.
“Am I understood?” he bellowed.
“Yes, Your Highness,” they answered in loud unison.
A thump of angry footsteps, followed by the slamming of a nearby door.
Interesting, I thought.
His words rattled in my head as I headed for the washing room. My skin was inflamed with the burn of my own wrath and the lingering heat of having Luther’s body so close to mine. As I splashed cold water on my face, I half expected to see steam rise from my dripping cheeks.
What I did see robbed every thought from my head.
A large, bronze-edged mirror hung above the water basin. It was the first time I’d seen my full reflection since…
The Crown.
There it was, pulsing and glittering, floating with unearthly grace a mere inch or so above my head. It was just as I remembered seeing it on King Ulther—not a static object, but a kind of living creation. The shadowy, thorn-dotted vines were in a continual state of growth, twining and budding new offshoots as others withered away. The scattered stars of light twinkled and flared, nearly blinding at their full intensity.
I was a wreck—my eyes bloodshot, my clothes rumpled, my skin sallow and crusted with mud—but the Crown was a thing of perfect, incomparable beauty.
A laugh leapt up from my throat.
Had I really walked into a room of sophisticated nobles looking like this and declared myself their ruler? And they had just… accepted it?
All because I, Diem Bellator, poor mortal healer, wore the Crown.
I was the Queen of Lumnos.
My eyes snagged on a clawfoot tub full to the brim with steaming water. I muttered a prayer of thanks for whatever servant had seen my pitiful state and run a bath—whether out of kindness or judgment, I didn’t care.
I stripped off my clothes and sank into the soapy water, groaning as the warmth soothed my tired muscles. I washed my hair with an assortment of gardenia-scented concoctions, then scrubbed at my skin until it was pink and raw. When I was done, I leaned my head back against the curved porcelain rim and closed my eyes, allowing the dam of my exhaustion to finally give way.
At some point I must have dozed off, because the water was cold when a swift knock rang out from the hall.
Reluctantly, I pulled myself out of the tub and wrapped a thin drying cloth under my arms, securing it in a knot between my breasts. I had no energy left to care about the stream of water that followed my slow trudge to the door. I slumped against the wall, barely staying upright to pull the door open wide.
Luther.
His cool composure lasted all of two seconds as he gazed down at my dripping, barely covered body, his eyes darkening to pitch.
I really had to stop answering doors without my clothes on.
“We’ve discussed this, Prince.” I pointed at my face. “Eyes up here.”
His throat strained. He stood straighter and offered me a lumpy linen sack. “I brought you a few things.”
I took it, blinking in surprise at its heft. “What’s in it?”
He gestured for me to look for myself. I pulled at the drawstrings and peered inside at a jumble of Fortosian steel knives, each in its own sheath, many discreet enough to be concealed beneath clothing. He’d even tossed in a variety of straps to wear them in different ways. Though some had handles of ivory or exotic woods, not one of them was bejeweled or gilded.
“I thought these might make you more comfortable here,” he said.
Wholly against my will, something warmed in my chest.
“And here I was thinking you all only carried weapons as jewelry,” I said, nodding at the ornate sword hilt peeking over his shoulder.
“This sword is a family heirloom. It can cut as well as any blade in Emarion—and it’s seen plenty of battlefields.” He sounded a little defensive. It was, disturbingly, a little cute. “However, I knew you would prefer something less… conspicuous.”
I grunted in acknowledgement. Fine, I could admit it was a thoughtful gesture. No sense in telling him that, though.
“I suppose I also owe you this.” He opened his jacket and pulled out my dagger, offering it to me, handle first.
I stared at the knife without moving. It was clean and polished, no longer coated in his blood. My eyes slowly dragged up his arm to his neck, where I’d sunk the blade’s edge—not quite intentionally—into his flesh.
Right before the most passionate, all-consuming, world-forgetting kiss I’d ever had. A kiss made of fire and lust, hatred and hurt, and perhaps something more. Something that lit a spark in my chest… and between my legs.
He watched me in silence. I could see the words forming in his eyes, hovering on his lips, the muscles on his face twitching with the effort of holding back.
His voice softened. “Diem, about what happened earlier—”
I snatched the knife from his hand and shut the door in his face.
Luther was a threat, that had become abundantly clear. Whatever might have passed between us before, it had to end. This was war.
And he was my prime target.
Chapter
Six
Someone was in my room.
I woke up to the shuffle of feet and the distant click of cabinets opening and closing.
I didn’t dare open my eyes.
Last night, with my final dregs of energy, I had stashed a handful of the blades Luther brought around the room—behind the door, near the bathtub, in the small drawer of the nightstand—before slipping between the silken bedsheets and falling asleep, clutching Brecke’s knife to my chest.
Now, however, my hands were empty. I must have lost my grip on the dagger, and I couldn’t risk losing the element of surprise by fumbling for it.
The footsteps grew louder. As quietly as I could, my fingers crept under my pillow and closed around the knife I’d stashed there.
And then I waited. Listened.
The whisper of fabric against fabric. The screech of wooden chair legs dragging against the stone floor. A long, drawn-out sigh. A slight weight leaning against the corner of the bed.
I pounced.
I threw the bedding to the side, unsheathing the blade and lunging forward in one seamless move, hurling myself into the air toward—
A shriek rang out, followed by a flash of light so dazzling I was momentarily blind.
I yelped and stumbled back across the mattress, my back cracking against the wooden headboard.