“I’mnotfragile,” Ingrid insists, her lips pursed. “It was the gown and—” She suddenly pales, her topaz eyes widening enough to show whites all around as she sits bolt upright. The bodice of her dress threatens to fall away, and she holds it to her breast, her expression morphing into one of accusation as she turns to me, wrinkles forming in her forehead. “Out there… Did you saybride?”
While she spoke, my gaze had traveled to her bare back, the expanse of creamy, unmarked skin, marred only by the slow rise of goosebumps as the cold air kisses her skin. In my arms, she’d felt no more substantial than a sheaf of grain and no less precious than a treasured artwork. Soft. Helpless. Much too wonderful for an uncivilized brute like me. The Dealmaker has made a mistake.
“That is the contract you both signed,” Anumar says, his attention directed to Ingrid first. “You did not specify you needademonicbride,” he adds to me, casually disinterested in the earthquake he’s wreaked upon us.
Hot fury surges through me, the ground underfoot steaming as I dig my claws into the bark of the throne tree, jaw clenched tight while my protest forms. It should have beenimplied, but I can’t bring myself to speak. Ingrid is a wisp of a thing, weak—foreign, too. But the set of her brow, the quiet anger simmering in her eyes… She’s far too small for the throne, but it no longer swallows her the way it did when I first set her there unconscious. Her righteous anger fills the space with her presence in a way few can manage.
I can envision no one else—demon or otherwise—occupying that space with me. I won’t give her up.
“If you’re looking to amend your contract, I’m willing to negotiate—”
“No,” I bark, earning the surprised looks of everyone else. I won’t give Valenar—or Ingrid—a chance to latch onto the offer. I leave no room to point out what a good option it is.
Of courseit’s an option I should consider, but I won’t. It would reveal I’ve been taken by the Dealmaker, and the respect the nobility has for me is as fine as spider’s silk. It won’t take much to send it off with the wind.
And that’s thesolereason I won’t consider it, I tell myself, forcing my gaze to land anywhere but on the woman occupying the throne. I must keep her close so no one sees the disaster I’ve already made of my rule. Not because she’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. Nor because I’ve never felt such peace as I did in the moments I had her body clutched to mine. Certainly not because the thought of her golden hair and flushed cheeks roaming the halls of the castle makes this frigid tomb seem more bearable.
I can’t look at her. I can’t face the disappointment I know must be etched into her beautiful face. For a brief moment, she must have glimpsed her freedom within reach before I swatted it away, and with it, any hope of escaping me. What kind of monster must I look like to her? Even amongst my own kind I’m seen as deformed and grotesque. What hope is there for a precious, radiant human to see anything more than a beast?
“Morwen, find her a new dress before taking her back to the ball,” I command. Never too far, she stands beyond the edge of the confrontation ready with a tea tray, quick to spring to action. Taking one step away from the throne—and my bride—is an enormous effort. I take another, and the gulf between us holds my breath hostage.
“There will be no further dealings,” I announce to everyone present, leveling a fiery look at the Dealmaker. “Thank your stars that I don’t destroy you where you stand for this deception. You’ve caused immeasurable damage that I must now reverse. Tread lightly,” I add with a low growl that leaves no question to my meaning.
Before anyone can question me—or my gaze finds its way back to my bride—I storm out of the throne room and away from the ball. My presence there has done enough harm for one night.
Chapter Eight
Ingrid
“Drink,” the shorter demoness, Morwen, says, thrusting a cup of tea toward me. Judging by the way she took orders from Xandril, she must be a member of the castle staff. There’s nothing welcoming or hospitable about the way she looks at me, though. Her bark-like face is drawn into a pursed expression, her glittering green eyes like beetles boring into me from afar. Her horns are curved and branched like antlers, and the hunch of her shoulders coupled with her stocky frame gives the impression of a squat stump come to life.
“It will soothe your soul,” she adds, blocking my path as I try to stand.
I don’t appear to have a choice in the matter, and the tea is bright in flavor and has a warming effect as it travels down to my stomach. I finish the cup of tea, the demoness inspecting to be sure every drop is gone before accepting the cup back. Admittedly, I do feel much improved; I don’t know if the tea truly had any effect on my soul, or if that’s simply the benefit of having a moment to adjust and calm down.
By now, there are only three of us in the room: Morwen, me, and the demon with feline eyes who’d been at Xandril’s side. Swooning the way I did is embarrassing and unusual—I’m maintaining that it was a product of the constricting dress,not the monstrous demon’s announcement—but I am glad to be away from the press of the ball, at least for a little while.
The enormous room looks like it was once filled with fine furnishings, but has been long neglected. Dust and cobwebs in the corners, rich fabrics in tatters, clouded windows spiderwebbed with cracks—the space has certainly seen better days, but it’s the huge chair looming up behind me that makes my heart leap to my throat. Perched on a dais in this otherwise sparsely-furnished room, the massive chair commands authority and respect. The branches stemming from the back of the chair may be bare, but they stretch out to form a domed canopy over the entire room, their reach impressive.
Extraordinary as it is, there’s…a sadness in the tree. It’s not strange that every limb is barren in the dead of winter, but something deep down tells me this tree is on death’s door. That it’s scared and wants help.
But that’s ludicrous. Trees don’tfeelthings.
They don’t grow into chairs or rooms, either, Ingrid. This isn’t your world.
I’ve no sooner finished chastising myself for making assumptions when the furthest recesses of my mind weave together loose, disparate thoughts. I leap out of the chair like it’s sprouted teeth.
“Is this the…” I almost can’t bring myself to say the word, and when it finally manifests, it’s the barest whisper, “throne?”
Morwen’s pursed lips tighten, her gem-green eyes hardening. “You should sit. Have another cup of tea,” she says, nudging me back toward the chair—thethrone. Her lack of answer is confirmation enough.
More and more threads weave together in my thoughts, and my head feels light again, my feet unsteady. It seems like it was only moments ago that I was in the courthouse jail making a deal for my brother’s life, and somehow I’ve found myself in another world, and attached to…
“Was that man I danced with the king?” I ask in a voice that’s surprisingly even.
I can’t be sure, but it looks like Morwen’s shoulders tense. Her face gives nothing away, and her hunched back makes me doubt I saw anything at all.
“Only by half until the throne accepts him,” she says, darting a glance to the other demon in the room.
