“And Jekket can’t give you that information?” she asked.
The Giver chuckled. “You were allowed much more freedom than he was.”
She stretched out her fingers and tried to calm her beating heart. “And what would I get in return? My mother’s life?”
“Nothing so crass. I would make you a very wealthy woman and... offer you a measure of protection.”
“How so?”
“The rest of Astera already believes you are dead. I can take a token back to my father that will make him believe it.”
She swallowed hard. “What do you mean, I’m believed to be dead?”
The Giver chuckled. “Haven’t you heard? The Loriians slaughtered the princess and left her body along the border. Our people are calling for justice on behalf of their beloved royal.”
Dahlia shook. They’d murdered some poor girl. “Why?”
“Power, wealth, land. Any number of things, really.”
“If I’m believed to be dead, then I no longer exist.”
He smirked. “I can see what you’re thinking. You’re dead to the kingdom, not to the monarchs, dearest. There is no escape or liberation except through me. If I claim that you are dead, they will believe me.” He nodded toward her. “I just need your hair, my little flower. We’ll cut it off, and I’ll present it to the king as a trophy.” The Giver frowned. “We’ll have to dye it, which is a shame, but it’s unavoidable, especially if you’re by my side.”
Bile burned the back of her throat. “Even you can’t protect me from your father.”
He leaned forward in his chair, a dark glint in his gaze. “As my wife, I can.”
Never.
Dahlia kicked the coals at the Giver.
Chapter Ten
Dahlia
Dahlia lungedfor the fire poker as the Giver roared and jumped to his feet. She spun, using her momentum to slam the iron tool into the side of his knee. She blanched at the sickening crack, the blow reverberating up her arm. The slumlord howled and dropped to the floor, burns along his face, chest, and arms.
They had to run now.
One thing she’d learned in Loriia was that frost giants recovered quickly.
Lia backpedaled, grabbing her mother by the hand and dragging her to the exit. She dropped the poker and yanked open the door, shoving her sobbing mum outside onto the porch first. Dahlia took one step before she was hauled back inside by the hood of her cloak and her hair. She released her mother with a cry.
Tears sprang into her eyes as the Giver shook her, tearing out some of her baby hair. He pinned her to his body, the heat of his chest blanketing her spine as he dragged her toward the back bedroom, her boots scraping the floor.
She gritted her teeth when he squeezed the curve of her left hip too hard, his claws sinking through her clothing and breaking skin as they entered the dark little bedroom.
“Not too smart, my flower,” he panted in her ear. “We’ll have to discuss your temper. Just maybe, I can tame it.”
Get out of his grasp. Do whatever it takes.
She clawed at his wrist with her right hand while she groped for her dagger with the left. Her fingers closed around the worn hilt of her blade. “You’ve not seen my temper.”
Blindly, she stabbed backward, her knife sinking deeply.
The Giver released Dahlia with a bellow, and she yanked her weapon free. Lia sprinted from the room and out the front door, heavy steps following her. How was he still moving? A heavy hand shoved between her shoulder blades, and she tumbled off the porch and into the snow, landing on her hands and knees.
Her right wrist screamed in pain, but Lia was just happy she hadn’t stabbed herself. She scrambled onto her feet and swung around, holding her blade out. Dahlia swiped the loose hair out of her face and backed away from the Giver.
