Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
I didn’t think she could pale more.
“You owe your life to Hudem’s blessing in your womb. Without it, you would already be dead. But make no mistake, I will return one day, and if I do not discover a vast improvement in the treatment of the mortals of Freywich, you will not survive a second time. You may go.”
She falters a step and then rushes for her empty house, nearly tripping twice.
“Does the princess find the actions I’ve taken satisfactory?” Zander’s voice is light and airy, a hint of mocking in his tone, his eyes, blank.
Yes, I want to say.
No, I want to scream, because it makes it impossible for me to hate him when he does things like this.
I shrug. “It’s a start.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “We must leave immediately. That smoke will surely draw attention from the south. How is the girl?”
“Healed enough for now.” Gesine fastens the buttons on Eden’s dress.
He climbs into his saddle. “Jarek.”
“Your Highness.” The second-in-command drops from his horse and holds out a hand.
Eden gapes at the warrior. There’s nothing soft about him—not his voice, not his eyes, not the way he looms. He’s all hard edges and sharp blades.
I realize what’s happening. “She can’t ride with him,” I blurt.
Zander’s stare is flat. “With the Legion’s second-in-command? Why not?”
Because it’d be like escaping a snake’s fangs only to land in a lion’s maw. I don’t want him anywhere near her. “Can’t she ride with Drakon, or Zorya, or …”
“Anyone but me.” Jarek smirks, amused.
“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” Zander snaps. “Move out.” He takes off, Abarrane following closely.
Gesine climbs into Horik’s saddle, leaving only Elisaf and Jarek.
I curse, knowing what I have to do. “Eden, go with Elisaf.”
She follows my gesture, and the tension releases from her shoulders as the kindly guard smiles at her.
With that taken care of, I climb into Jarek’s saddle.
“I don’t think so. You ride in front.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t trust having you at my back.”
“Honestly, what do you think I’m going to do to you?” With a huff, I shift forward, stiffening when he fits himself behind me, his thighs bracketing mine, his arms reaching around my waist to grab the reins.
“What are you upset about? I’ve seen how you ride. This will be a much longer day for me.” He urges the horse forward.
I grit my teeth, the urge to tell him to go fuck himself—again—overwhelming. We join the group as they pass through Freywich toward the main gate. People line the streets, watching us pass as the thick smoke plumes dissipate in the sky behind us. An odd mood hangs over the crowd that I can’t place. Many wear cautious smiles. Several curtsy and bow. A few shout their thanks. How much longer before they trade those for curses and blades once they hear the lies Atticus is spreading?
“Why can’t I smell your Ybarisan blood anymore?” Jarek asks suddenly, reminding me how close he is.
“I have no idea,” I lie, and then tip my head to the side on impulse. “Why don’t you see if my blood still tastes Ybarisan?”
His deep, grating chuckle skates across my exposed neck. “I think I’ll pass on that generous offer.”
Zander leads the charge through town. He glances over his shoulder once, searching. As soon as his eyes touch mine, he returns his focus ahead.
Checking to make sure his weapon to regain his throne is still here.
My anger bubbles with that thought. But it’s good—I need to let that fester. Gesine was right: it is easier to stew in anger than drown in sorrow.
A blond woman waves frantically at us, beaming. “Thank you,” she mouths, pressing her fingers against her lips.
“Why are they thanking us?”
“That is the tributary from last night, and we both know why she’s thanking me.”
I roll my eyes. “She’s not the only one, though. Are you saying you serviced more than one mortal?”
“It was an eventful night.” Behind me, Jarek bites into a fresh apple.
“Where do you keep getting those?”
He pats a pouch by his leg.
“Whoring yourself and apple picking. Gosh, you have been busy,” I taunt.
“It’s not like I had a choice. The king ordered us to fill as many baskets as we could and deliver them to Freywich’s mortals. Dragged us out of slumber to do it,” he mutters.
Suddenly, Drakon’s comment about not wanting to see another apple makes sense. Zander must have had plans to raze that entire orchard last night. Did he already have them when I accused him of doing nothing for these people? Regardless, I smile with an overwhelming sense of relief—all that food did not turn to ash for the sake of punishing Danthrin.
We round the bend in the street, leading into Freywich’s main square, the gates ahead.
My smile falls off with a gasp.
A man is tied to a hastily erected wooden post, his wrists bound above his head, his throat slashed wide, blood spilled over his naked body.