“No one’s ever told you,” he said. “About my first wife.”
An acid taste swells my tongue. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to know about his marriage to someone who was years younger than me. Long dead and all but forgotten.
“We were married for three years. She never gave me children. Do you know what I need in order to create a legacy, Condesa?”
I make my voice sound cold—colder than the snow gathering on top of our mountain. “Why ask the question if you know the answer?”
He leans forward. His hot breath brushes my cheek. There are deep lines at the corners of his eyes, carved into his skin from years of looking at the world in distrust. “I need children,” he says as if I hadn’t spoken. “That’s one of the things you’re good for, isn’t that right, Condesa?”
I know what my other uses are. Through marriage, he’ll have control over my people and a steady water supply—thank Luna it’ll never come to that. Not with my standing in his way as his fake bride. The scrape on my elbow is sticky with blood, stinging and raw. The lizard hisses, its long pink tongue sticking out of my pocket.
“Do you know how she died?” he asks.
“In childbirth.”
“Is that true?” His tone is like a blade dragged against my skin. “Is that what you really think?”
“What—what are you saying?”
Atoc’s stare holds. He reaches for the end of my braid and strokes the hair escaping the ribbon. “I’m saying she disappointed me. Be very careful, Condesa. I don’t ever forget slights, and yours have been numerous. Embarrassing me in front of court. Insolent in front of my servants. I’m telling you: Watch yourself. Don’t you want to live?”
I say nothing. He curls my braid around his hand, once, twice. He handles my hair like rope and he tugs, hard. I resist, and my knees buckle a second time. I’m struggling to remain upright. The part of my stomach where his fist slammed into me is sore.
“I’m not someone you can make a fool of,” he continues. “I have sacrificed too much, have lost too much. I will have what I want, and I’ll do anything to ensure my legacy.” His dark eyes narrow. “We have that in common, I think.”
Madre de Luna. For a second I can’t breathe. He was right—here I was, a stand-in for the last royal in Inkasisa, willing to do whatever it took to guarantee an Illustrian victory. I’d risk marriage to my enemy, a future of my own—mylifeto make that happen.
Atoc’s gaze drops to my bleeding elbow. He walks to the door and pokes his head out. There’s soft murmuring as he talks to one of his guards.
“Tell the seamstresses to lower the neckline.” He looks me over again, not missing a single detail, and adds in a gruff voice, “You look lovely.”
Then he’s gone. I sink onto the steps, my knees finally giving out completely, and examine my elbow. It’s a scraped-up, bloody mess. I can’t stop trembling, thinking of his plans for me. Thinking of his poor first wife. Thinking how it could have been Catalina in this room instead of me. My blood floods with panic. I lift shaking hands to my face, thankful I’m alone. To take off the mask. To let myself worry about my own skin.
The door opens, and Rumi walks in. He takes one look at me, sitting as I am, my wedding dress bunched around my legs, my arm close to my chest.
“Condesa.” He squats in front of me, lightly touching the area around my wound. “I’ll have to clean it. Come on—let’s go to the infirmary.”
He gently tugs me to my feet.
I gesture to the wedding dress. The fabric feels tight around my chest, as if I’m not getting enough air. “I have to get out of this.”
He nods. “All right.”
I blow out an exasperated breath when he spins around to give me privacy. “I can’t get out of this dress by myself. Can you help me?”
Rumi faces me. There’s a slightly dazed look on his face, but it’s gone before I can comment on it. I turn around and look at him over my shoulder. “There’s a row of buttons.”
“Right.” He swallows. “One second.”
Then he crosses the room and peers up and down the hall, presumably looking for help. I’ve never seen him this uncomfortable before. Finally he returns to my side, wearing a resigned expression, as if he’s about to endure the worst meal of his life.
He works swiftly, his fingers grazing my skin. “It’s done.”
After he’s turned around again, his back toward me, I quickly step out of the dress and change into my striped skirt and tunic. I lightly touch his shoulder to let him know I’m ready. He tenses under my fingers and I hastily pull away.
I follow him out of the room, down the hall, and toward the east wing. “Did he hurt you anywhere else?”
“Yes,” I say. “But it’s fine. I’ll have a bruise, but nothing is broken.”
