The kings queen, p.18
The King's Queen, page 18
“Yes, Vera.”
“Stop interrupting me!” I finally explode, the world still spinning. “My Laei, you think you know everything, you insufferable ass! I can hardly get a word in without you correcting me, so for once, just shut the fuck up. These men didn’t die because of you. They died because someone killed them. If I were in your position, you would’ve told me I was just following orders. You were ordered to protect me, just like I was ordered to run. So stop moping on that rock, and let me bandage that goddamn wound.”
Silence—pure and smothering silence.
Then, laughter.
Raucous, unfiltered, wild laughter.
Rowan clutches his stomach, doubling over and clutching his wounded arm, but he still laughs. The rain continues to pour, streaking down his tan face, making him look like one of those men from Tanja’s romance novels. His saturated hair clings to his forehead, his full brows.
Then I begin to laugh too. Maybe it’s delirium or fever from the rain. I don’t care. I laugh and laugh and laugh until it breaks into sobs—hiccupping sobs between shattered breaths and spinning trees.
Too fast—everything in this life moves too fast.
I make to step forward when my face is buried in a strong chest, firm arms encircling my waist, pulling me closer to him. The scent of ocean and leather and citrus floats to me, swallows me whole. Rowan’s broad chin rests atop my head, encouraging me to bury my face in the soaked leather of his vest. I oblige, and we rest there for a moment. The world slows to an even halt eventually, and I spare a few seconds more before I pull back. He groans in protest but stops when I bend down and tear what’s left of the bottom of my gown clean off, baring to just above my knees.
Rowan watches me with curious eyes as I wind the cloth around his wound, pulling tight with expert hands. I pause only when he winces, but a subtle nod of encouragement has me finishing the bandage.
He takes a moment to inspect it before nodding his approval. “Where’d you learn to tie a bandage like that?” He flexes his arm, and I pretend not to notice the way his firm muscles coil and strain against the cotton of his shirt.
“I’m a good for nothing brat who likes to cause trouble, remember?”
Faint color blooms in those high cheeks as he recalls what he called me when we first met.
“I learned quickly to clean up my messes.”
“Ah, I guess I did say that.” He cringes as we stomp onwards.
The rain continues its onslaught, thoroughly soaking us as if we’re still in that pond, though this water sends a chill through my bones. Even Rowan, who I am convinced is a human heater, begins to shiver. The one good thing I can say for the storm is that the floods cover our tracks, and the occasional lightning strike illuminates the path as it shatters against the sky.
“Where are we going?” I dare not speak above a whisper at this point, and I cling close to Rowan as the trees thicken, blocking out any light. If he notices the way my face is practically pressed into his back, he plays the part of the gentleman for once and doesn’t make a sarcastic remark.
“There’s an inn nearby in my territory. Once we get there, we should be safe from Mavis and the rebels, and I will send out a clean-up crew to gather the bodies for the rebels to bury.”
I ignore the way my gut churns at the word “bodies.”
“Clean-up crew? You mean there’s more Nightwalkers than just the four of you?” I ask incredulously.
Rowan just turns back to me with open-mouthed disbelief. “Does the king only govern those in the palace? I have my own underlings, Ver. Who the hell do you think covered up your first mission as a bar fight after you came home with my dying second before you passed out yourself? Stunts like that are expensive and require manpower.”
“My apologies, My Liege,” I seethe between clenched teeth.
Hot tears of pain and fear begin to slide their way down my face, blending in with the torrential downpour. My wounds throb, my ankle is barely supporting my weight anymore, and I rely heavily on Rowan’s shaking form to keep up.
We remain silent as we walk, until a dim light starts to form up ahead. The sight causes me to pick up my pace and ignore my stabbing pains. Rowan subconsciously does, as well, and we both half walk, half run towards the light and find ourselves in front of an inn in Adil.
Adil is still far enough out that no one bats an eye at our bloody and filthy bodies, though they do gawk at my bare calves. If I had half my strength regained, I would shake them until their tiny brains came out their noses and scream at them about priorities, but Rowan clutches my hand in his as we trudge to the inn.
“Stick close, and follow my lead,” he whispers under his breath. “Not everyone here is mine, so hold your tongue.”
I can only swallow thickly as the lion leads me directly into his den.
Chapter 21
Verosa
Rowan stalks to the front desk, where the innkeeper sleeps. His face contorts with disgust for a moment before he announces loudly in a wail, “Please, kind soul, my wife and I were on our way here when we were robbed by merciless thugs. I barely fought them off, but she’s quite shaken. Please take pity on two pour souls.”
Refraining from laughing in a state of delirium is a true testament to my acting skills, and I allow my lower lip to wobble bit.
A few patrons look on in pity or disgust, but the innkeeper schools his countenance of a savvy businessman once the shock of being startled awake wears off. “I don’t know. How much coin do you have to offer?”
“Twenty-three coins.”
“Gold or silver?”
“Seventeen silver, five gold.”
“Gold might be a trouble around these parts.”
“That’s why I’m entrusting you with it,” Rowan counters quickly.
The innkeeper sighs. “And who should I book the room under?”
“Leo and Marie.”
The innkeeper scribbles all this down furiously before handing a different sheet of paper to Rowan. The young man—far too young to be an innkeeper—leans over the desk and speaks lowly. “I’ll send this on to our most trusted crew. They won’t say a word.” He presses a key into Rowan’s palm. “Usual room. I’ll send for the doctor tonight and some horses in the morning. I assume you’ll be out of here before they follow you.”
Rowan accepts the key as if it is a mere handshake. “Good man.”
The innkeeper only grunts and stalks off silently through a door behind the counter without accepting any money.
Rowan holds my hand tightly and guides me up the first few stairs, but when he is sure no one is watching, he takes a sharp left into a broom closet.
“Well, this is cozy,” I jest while he takes to pushing aside some meager cleaning supplies.
He doesn’t bother with a response before he pushes a particular stone, causing the whole wall to slide, revealing a large room. “You were saying?” Rowan responds drily.
The room is large, with two beds on either side of the room. Each are lavishly decorated with a multitude of colorful pillows and embroidered throw blankets. The walls are coated with hand-painted designs, minuscule whorls of pearlescent gold paint that stretch like veiny webs across the entirety of the room. A plush carpet greets my feet as I remove my muddy boots, and Rowan settles on a chair seated next to a matching mahogany table.
“The bathroom is right through those doors if you’d like to wash up before the doctor arrives.” Rowan winces as he bends over to untie his boots.
“Let me.” I bend before him, untying his laces swiftly and helping remove the filthy boot.
Rowan watches silently, his motions stiff and lagging.
I rock back on my heels, even the small motion draining all remaining energy from my body. Adil is a half day’s ride from the palace. We will probably have to leave by first light to avoid attracting attention and to beat the scouts my father will undoubtedly send out once news reaches him.
Torin will probably be with them, possibly Blaine as well, but I doubt it. Blaine is needed to stay at the palace and guard my father, but no force will dare stop Torin if any of us are thought to be in danger.
“Are you alright?” is the only slightly intelligible thing that comes to mind as I try to fill the silence. Rowan’s labored breathing causes a physical pain in my chest. I know he must have gone through much worse to collect the scars I’ve seen him wear proudly, but still, I did this.
I did this.
Rowan laughs a bit. “Never been better, sunshine.”
I can’t find anything to laugh about in the moment. My lower lip quivers, and my shoulders cave in on themselves. No tears fall, but dry sobs wrack my chest. Torin was right—all of this happened because of one greedy princess.
Rowan moves with a speed I didn’t think he could still possess and wraps his arms around my wet and shaking frame. It is stiff, his motions not as languid as before, just another reminder of the pain I’ve caused him.
“Why did you come back?” I dare not say anything above a rasping whisper for fear my voice may betray me. “Why would you come for me?”
Rowan’s arms fall from my shoulders to encircle my waist, his head now resting heavily on my shoulder. Why would he have done it? He could’ve died. He could’ve…
“I couldn’t stop myself.” He drew in a ragged breath. “I heard your screams, and I… I couldn’t stop myself from running to you. Couldn’t help but think that if something happened I— I’d never forgive myself.” He lifts his head from my shoulder. “Because you make this sort of life bearable, Vera. And I want you—no, I need you,” he brings his lips close to mine, “to stay.”
To stay, with him and Kya, Amír, Derrín. To be a Nightwalker. A home, somewhere to stay.
But do I deserve this?
My body shudders, cold against his own—warm and slick with blood. His blood.
He lowers his hand from my face, silent understanding passing between us. It’s enough to make me sob again.
“I’m s–sorry,” I blubber between blood-encrusted lips. The words taste metallic. “I just can’t right now, not with his blood on me.”
Blood-streaked hair falls loose around my face, a personal curtain between Rowan and me. I can’t bear it, not the look of pity or disgust he probably wears. Not the disappointment.
But rather, a calloused hand grips my own, a second raising up to my jaw. He hooks his finger under my chin, gently raising my gaze to his own. To my shock, I find only deep and unwavering understanding.
“Don’t ever apologize to me. Not for that.” My throat constricts as he lowers his hand again, but he still grips mine, his thumb tracing lazy circles across the back of it. “I will wait for you.” His gaze drops to my hand as he holds it, then he slowly raises it to his lips, stopping just close enough that his breath scatters across the top. His emerald-green eyes lift up again to meet mine, a request. “May I?”
A small smile tries to tug at the corners of my mouth as I nod my head and whisper, “Yes.”
Rowan seems to notice because he smiles into the kiss he presses atop my hand.
His lips feel exactly how I imagined them, soft and gentle, yet a silent hunger lurks beneath them. My faces flushes a light pink as I imagine what it will feel like for those lips to capture my own. I’ve dreamt of it, and I want it so desperately, but I just can’t. Not now. I hate to ask this of him, but he will wait, I know it, even if it kills him.
There’s a soft knock at the door, assumably more for our comfort than announcing herself, given there is no real door, not from the outside. The doctor steps in, her hair pinned tightly to her scalp in such a way that pulls all of her pretty features into a tight countenance. Her thin lips press firmly together as she lays her equipment out across the mahogany table. She begins to sanitize her tools with no glimpse of a smile or small talk.
She moves towards Rowan first, but he shakes his head and motions for me to take a seat. I oblige as she begins to assess my visible wounds.
“You will have to take that dress off.”
Rowan promptly excuses himself from the room.
The doctor’s skilled hands are cold as she lays them against my mottled skin. Occasionally, she tuts to herself or scribbles something on a scrap sheet of paper. She makes no comment on my blood.
After a while, she finally deduces that my wounds are not horribly severe, mostly a few shallow cuts and deep bruises. The smoke I inhaled won’t cause any issues. However, slamming my head into the carriage benches left me with a nasty concussion. She advises that I avoid any strenuous activities, jarring motions, loud noises, bright lights, and reading for a few weeks.
“Thank you.”
She dismisses me to the bath with a disinterested flick of her wrist and goes to fetch Rowan from the broom closet, where he has been hiding this whole time. I scoff quietly at the slight but forget my offense as soon as I spot the pristine bathtub in the center of the bathroom.
It is almost cathartic, watching the multicolored blood streak and run in muddy whorls from my limbs. Within moments, the once-clear water is a ruddy brown, and I haven’t even dunked my head under yet. I empty the basin and refill it again, and then twice more before the water runs clear, and I step out. A fluffy towel sits on the edge of the sink, and I run it across my skin and hair, frowning when it comes back clean. It doesn’t feel right to take a life and not be stained with his blood for life. But would he have felt the same if it was my body they would find in the morning?
For once, I wouldn’t mind Tanja scrubbing the skin from my bones and coating my face with paints until I can’t recognize myself. The feeling of looking in the mirror now is uncomfortable.
When I step out from the bathroom, now clean and dressed in a soft nightgown, the doctor is finishing a final stitch on the wound from the arrow Rowan took for me. He withholds a wince as she ties the final knot and nods her head. The mercenary king presses a few gold pieces into her hand and mumbles a thanks before she takes her leave.
Catching my stare, Rowan winks. “I’m going to bathe unless you’ve used all the hot water. Try not to think about me too hard. You’ve got to take care of that concussion, Ver.”
My cheeks burn with indignation, and he laughs before closing the door with a soft snick behind him. Prick.
I claim the bed furthest from the door. Rowan may trust these people, but my nerves have been set on edge. However, it is hard to stay irritated or anxious as my skin touches the soft, silk sheets.
“Seriously?” I scoff. “How filthy rich is this moron?”
From an inexhaustible supply of horses and owning multiple taverns and inns, to such luxurious private rooms and free-flowing gold coins, Rowan’s wealth must be comparable to the king’s. I suppose he is called the king of mercenaries for a reason.
The sounds of footsteps and dripping water emits from the bathroom as I burrow deeper into the covers. There is so much Rowan and I must talk about still—his confession, my own feelings, our next move, who I really am. Maybe that last one can wait, at least until I’m finally free of that wretched castle.
Exhaustion pulls a blanket over my shoulders and closes my eyes with gentle hands, and I drift off to sleep just as Rowan opens the door.
Chapter 22
Verosa
The hallways all look the same. Where am I, and where am I even going?
The tapestries stare back at me, the same as they always have, but something has changed. The faces, those beautifully woven faces of all my childhood heroes, are no longer smiling. Each one stares back, their faces twisted with horror.
“Verosa.”
No.
I turn down one hallway at random and begin to sprint, ignoring my burning lungs and aching muscles.
The voices draw closer, murmuring my name as if a prayer.
“Verosa.”
No. No, no, no, no, no.
Invisible hands reach out and take ahold of me, pulling the clothes from my skin and the skin from my bones. Blood and tears mix as I cry out for someone, anyone, to come save me. The cool marble floor answers my calls as they pull me down further.
I can’t move. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I can’t—
“Vera.”
This is the end. Darkness washes over me in rolling waves. A pit forms in my stomach that feels like I am falling. These hands keep pulling, stripping me away until I am nothing but a carcass, a frail open body with a gaping heart still pumping out golden blood.
Slowly, the hands reach for that too.
“I told you you’d rot,” one of them whispers.
“She never listens,” the other agrees, more feminine and sadistic.
“Verosa.”
Icy fear wraps itself around me, and I violently shake as I bleed out. Why won’t anyone help me?
“Vera.”
The howling draws closer now.
“Vera.”
I take in one final breath and then scream.
“Vera!”
Someone grips my shoulders firmly, shaking me awake. The silhouette of a man hovers above me in the dark, his hair brushing against my forehead.
Rowan.
Rowan is here, but where is here?
The inn—the room at the inn booked under Leo and Marie. The room where I fell asleep safely. I am safe.
Still, I quiver beneath him, my headboard slightly tapping the wall behind it. My eyes adjust to the dark a bit more, and I look up to see Rowan’s face tightened with concern as he searches my own for any signs of pain. His knees press lightly into my sides as he leans above me, the bed still shaking. Then I realize it is not the bed that is shaking, but me.
“I—”
“Don’t speak. Just breathe.” He watches as I take three deep breaths, counting and breathing with me, before he rocks back on his heels and allows me to sit up. The bed creaks as I do so, but it helps to be upright.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head.
“Alright.”
We sit in silence, his thumb lazily tracing circles across my knee without any other form of contact. Every fiber of my being seems to focus on where his skin touches mine, where little jolts of electricity shoot through me. It is not an uncomfortable feeling.
