"You knew," he said. "You knew what you carried."
"I didn't—"
The blow came unexpectedly, the back of his hand connecting with her cheek with such force that it sent her sprawling from the throne. Before she could recover, he grabbed her hair and dragged her to her feet.
"Don't lie to me." He shook her hard enough to make her vision blur. "The oil was one thing. A servant's trick. But this? Blood that rejects me? That sings of another king?" Another violent shake. "What are you?"
"I don't know!" The words came out desperate, but true.
He studied her face, then smiled. It was worse than his rage.
"Then we'll find out together." He started dragging her toward the doors, her feet scrambling to keep up. "In private. Where I can bethorough."
The Withered parted as they passed, their antlered heads turning to watch. She caught a glimpse of the great hall, the abandoned feast, overturned chairs, blood on the throne.
Then Malus hauled her into the corridor, toward his chambers, his grip in her hair never loosening.
"You're going to tell me everything," he said as they climbed the stairs, Briar tripping and stumbling in an effort to maintain her footing. "About the warmth in your chest. About when it started, every moment you've felt it react." His fingers tightened. "And if you lie or if you resist, then my brother loses a finger. Then a hand. Then more. Do you understand?"
“Yes."
"Good." He kicked open his chamber door. "Now we begin your lessons in what happens when you try to deceive the Forest King."
Chapter sixteen
The door slammed behind them with enough force it made the panes of glass in the window rattle. Malus released her hair, shoving her toward the center of the room. She stumbled, catching herself against a chair, her scalp burning where he'd dragged her.
"Sit."
The command hit like a physical force. Her body sank into the chair before she could resist, the bargain asserting itself with brutal efficiency. The warmth in her chest flared in protest, pushing against the compulsion too late.
"Better." He moved to pour himself wine, his movements sharp, agitated. The composed king from the feast was gone. Here, in private, she could see the rage barely contained. "Now. Tell me about the warmth."
Her mouth stayed closed. She hadn't been compelled to speak, just to sit.
He turned, saw her resistance, and something dangerous flickered in his eyes. In two strides he was in front of her, his hand tangling in her hair again, yanking her head back.
"Tell me about the warmth," he repeated, each word precise.
The bargain forced the words out. "It started when I arrived here. In the Oubliette."
"Liar." His free hand struck her across the face, not as hard as before but enough to sting. "Try again."
"That's when I first felt it—"
Another strike that left her gasping. "When did it really begin?"
The compulsion dug deeper, pulling truth from her throat. "I don't know. The Oubliette is when I noticed it, when it saved me, but—"
"But?"
"It felt familiar. Like recognizing something that had always been there."
He studied her face, then released her hair to pace the room. She watched him move, noting how the autumn magic seemed to follow him, leaves appearing in his footsteps only to crumble to dust moments later.
"Stand," he commanded suddenly. "Remove the dress."
Her hands moved to the fastenings before she could think to resist. The warmth surged, and for a moment her fingers stilled, fighting the compulsion. She felt it pushing back against the bargain's hold.
