When she finally pulled away, she looked him over and really took him in. His eyes she knew like the back of her hand, yet something was …off. He smelled like cold dark magic, and now that she was unravelling it, he didn’t feel the same either. In her gut, she knew. “You—you’re not Shade,” she whispered.
She stumbled back a step, but he gripped her shoulders. Emmery tried to struggle out of his hold but his fingers dug into her soft flesh. Her heart banged against her chest, each thud a cry to run far and fast. His smile, the haunting grin without a shred of joy—
It wasn’t Shade’s. And in the briefest flash, a single second, flicker of a moment, Shade’s eyes changed.
The green vanished.
Shifted tored. Not just any red, but the scarlet of gore, death, and blood.
Emmery screamed.
She lunged back into her body and sucked air as she sprang up from the bed. Her hand flew to her chest and found a thick, woven bandage with a substance crusted around the edges. The bandage swaddled her like an embalmed creature, from her wrists, halfway up her neck, down her torso, almost to the waistband of her sleeping shorts. She traced a finger along the jagged slice down her forearm, which was now stitched and left uncovered to breathe. Emmery frowned at the shorts Talia must have dressed her in.
At Emmery’s side, Aera’s amber eyes flicked up to meet hers,I told you so,written all over that gaze.Then the fox fell back into a sound sleep accompanied by shockingly loud snoring for such a small creature.
Emmery’s scabs flexed and pulled along with those deep stitches as she groaned and pressed her palms against her eyelids.
The memories trickled back. Briar had come to tell her she was heading to Ellynne for a few weeks. And Brennen. He’d been here too.
Emmery clutched the silk sheet and yanked it up to her chin. The sheets smelled familiar, like soap and mint and—
Gods. This wasn’t her bed.
Weren’t her sheets. Hers were white.Notblack.
That wasn’t her nightstand, either. All this furniture was dark wood.
Compared to the castle’s lifeless decor and sterility, this room was the opposite. It wasmessy. Or messier. Lived-in.
Blankets and clothing had been strewn about. To her right lay a spectacular view of the skyline. Night air crept through the open window on a gentle breeze laced with promises of springflowers and rain. Before the window, a half dozen mugs cluttered the surface of a bistro table with two chairs.
And there wascolour—deep burgundy walls, mishmashed shades in the zigzag-patterned rug, and gold accents adorned the knobs, the black iron bed frame, and ties that bound the black velvety curtains. To her left was a strange ornamental door with fancy carvings of lace and flowers, and between the bathing chamber and a closet, was a black armchair. And in that chair sat none other than the King himself, casually flipping through a book.
Emmery opened her mouth to speak but no words came.
She was half naked. In Destonne’s bed. What the fuck was happening?
“Why—” she started, then gave her eyes another harsh rub to ensure she wasn’t dreaming. “Why am I here?”
Destonne didn’t look up from his book. “In my room or my bed?”
“Both.” She nearly choked at his nonchalance. She’d never been allowed anywhere near his chambers before, not even when she’d been left in that blasted sitting room with that awful clock. One day she’d even stalked down the hall to give him a piece of her mind, but the door had been locked, and gods only knew what he was doing in there. Her lip curled in disgust as she glanced down at the sheets wrapped around her legs.
Likely noting her expression, he said, “Those are clean, other thanyourdirt. Someone had to keep an eye on you while your sheets were being laundered.”
“And you were forced to be that someone?” Emmery snorted. “Don’t you have healers for that? Or Brennen or …anyone?”
He glanced up from the book, licked his finger, and flicked to the next page. “I volunteered.”
Was this another move of control, or did he feel bad for what happened? If that was even possible. Still covered in the silkensheets, Emmery tucked her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them, though the movement aggravated her wounds.
Destonne set the book on his knee, and leaned forward with his hands steepled. “I need to apologize for being late. Had I been there, you wouldn’t have tried to kill yourself.”
“That’snotwhat happened,” she snapped. “I was tired of waiting and you were late. Again, I may add.”
“Did you have somewhere else to be? Some appointment you didn’t inform me of?” He lifted a brow.
Emmery glared at him from across the room and met his challenging stare. “Keeping anyone waiting is rude. And I—” She stopped herself before she said too much. He wouldn’t care about the clock and the horrific things happening in her mind. How each tick embedded into her brain like a burrowing insect.