A Queen of Thieves & Chaos (Fate & Flame, #3)

This time when I place my hand on her back and keep it there, she doesn’t stiffen. “By the way, how were you planning on sharing this disturbing news in the dining hall?”

“Oh.” She smiles sheepishly. “With a note.”

“A note. What, tucked inside a fritter?”

“That is actually not a bad idea,” she admits with a laugh. “No, it was in my pocket. Foolish, I know. Even more so when I saw you sitting beside her.” Her jaw tenses with that word.

“You really do not like her. Why?”

“Because she is cruel to the servants, and she means to kill you.” She hesitates, then bows her head to add, “Lady Saoirse doesn’t deserve you or Islor’s crown. I would not want to see her with either.”

Is it her hatred for Saoirse the reason she came to warn me? Or her personal fondness for me? “It’s a good thing you saw the risk and stayed away. I would rather Saoirse think you are just the baker.”

Gracen’s heart races—with trepidation or excitement? I can’t tell. “But I am just the baker.”

A stray hair hangs over her forehead. I reach up to push it back, letting my fingers graze through her unruly curls. The strands are deceptively soft, and my fingers don’t tangle.

“I don’t normally invite kitchen staff to my chambers to whisper about conspiracies.” Doing so would be considered beneath a king. And yet now that I have her here, I accept Kazimir is right—I couldn’t care less about traditions surrounding royal tributaries. I want her as mine, and not simply for what’s in her veins. I want to feel the warmth of her flesh, the taste of her skin, the sound of her coming apart beneath me.

Her eyes wander back to where we came from, beyond, to the doorway where my bed waits, as if she realizes where my thoughts are heading. She hesitates before asking, “Is Sabrina still alive?”

Mention of my last tributary’s current predicament is a bucket of cold water on the explicit thoughts racing through my mind. “For the moment, yes.”

She nods but doesn’t ask more. She doesn’t have to; I sense her fear taking over. What would happen to Gracen if I took her as tributary and then her blood became tainted?

What about her three children?

They don’t deserve to be motherless.

“Do not mention our talk to anyone, not even Corrin. And do not ever repeat what I’ve told you tonight.”

“I wouldn’t.”

I reach for the door handle.

“Wait. One more thing?” she says suddenly.

“Yes?” I stall, hovering precariously close to her. Her breath skates across my skin, where my tunic gapes at the collar.

“Tonight, when Lord Danthrin cornered me, he said something.” She frowns as if trying to decipher it. “About the wind changing direction around here and that he’d be back to reclaim me when it does.”

The fool clearly thinks there is a change of rule coming soon. Perhaps the minor lord’s grand aspirations have made him allies I wouldn’t have expected. He is cunning, after all, having successfully escaped his tithe.

“Listen to me, Gracen.” You are mine now. I bite back the urge to claim her so boldly. “You and your family are under my care, as your keeper and king. You will never return to him. That is a promise I can make.”

Her shoulders slump. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Any time you wish to speak to me, find Kazimir and he will arrange it. But do not risk coming into the dining hall.” Because if Lord Danthrin accosts her again, I’m liable to kill him where he stands, and that may not win me favor. On impulse, I lean in, allowing my lips to graze across her cheek.

Her sharp inhale is nearly my undoing.

“Sleep well.” I open the door, stepping back, away from her.

Kazimir waits outside, a frown on his face at Gracen beside me. “Do you need me … for anything?”

“Yes, please escort Gracen back to her room.”

His sigh is soft but noticeable. He really thought I was going to satisfy my needs with her tonight. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“And find Rhodes.” It’s time we learn what Freywich’s lord has been up to.





CHAPTER NINETEEN




ZANDER


Romeria is a lone, silent figure, standing at the mouth of the tunnel, her cloak swaying in the cool breeze, her attention outward toward the glowing fires in the distance and the army that will either be our allies or dead by dawn.

Dusk has settled and an odd somberness clings to her, veiling the panic that I know still thrives in her thoughts. I don’t have to ask what has caused it. Guilt claws at her heart. She blames herself for what is coming, what she promised—me, Abarrane, Elisaf, anyone who knows her secret—she would never be party to.

Romeria has opened the nymphaeum door, and we have only chaos to look forward to.

That is, if this Lucretia is telling the truth, and not some perverted fabrication of it. But it makes sense given all that we’ve done to get to this place. We should have seen it.

I should have seen it.

“She will come to terms with it.”

My jaw clenches at Gesine’s voice in my ear. “Is that what unleashing a waiting army of monsters and battling with a fate for rule of my land is? Coming to terms with it? Do you realize the weight you’ve placed on her shoulders?”

“I only mean that there is no blame to be laid. There is no other path but one, and we would be fooling ourselves to think it. This was written for you both long ago, and we must move forward as prophecy dictates.”

“The blame does not lay at Romeria’s feet.” Or even mine, but I can find plenty for the caster standing next to me, who seems to be shirking all responsibility. “Tell me, High Priestess, if prophecy declared that I was to take an arrow to the chest, would you hand my enemy the bow?”

“That is not how prophecy works—”

“But if it did?”

Her brow furrows, as if to consider her answer to that question.

“Your Highness, a banner flies,” Loth calls out, his sights on the distance.

“We will continue this conversation later.” I stroll toward the exit. Romeria moves to join me, but I hold up my hand to stop her. “I am stronger, but that does not mean I trust myself around you.” I’ve crossed this threshold and battled the curse’s craving a handful of times today and, each time, the need’s assault grew weaker. Still … “Give me a moment.”

She nods and waits as I step out. The Ybarisans watch from a safe distance, no doubt equal parts curious and wary about the exiled king whose knees buckle every time he steps outside the secret city. Earlier, when Radomir drew his cloak and stepped out—and crumbled under the weight of the curse, turning him back into his sapling form—they wore masks of horror, but followed Kienen’s lead, remaining in place.

This time, the need is nothing more than a nuisance—thankfully—and it vanishes in seconds.