“Mountain,” Rune corrected, raising his glass in salute. “And it likes you.”
“It led me in circles.”
“It led you to where you belong.” He gestured to the velvet chair placed in front of his own, too ornate to be coincidence, too empty to be anything but a demand. “Sit. Drink. Unless you wish to run away and negate our bargain again.”
The warning in his tone was a velvet-wrapped blade. Not a threat. A promise. A clear indication he had no intention of letting her refuse him this time.
Rune’s crimson eyes raked over her appearance and his mouth slightly pursed in disapproval. She caught her reflection in the burnished mirror on his wall. Her face was streaked with dirt, hair wild from the windless tunnels. The white skirt now brown, torn like wilted leaves. Alora flushed as she smoothed down her hair. Lady Zinnia would have a fit if she saw her.
“I can’t have my bride in such a sorry state,” Rune said. With a snap of his fingers, the fabric shimmered and shifted.
In the space of a breath, the unsightly dress vanished and was replaced by a new one: silken black with hints of deep red that shimmered like wine in firelight. Delicate, golden chainswrapped around her shoulders and waist, glittered like captured stars. Her hair flowed down her shoulders perfectly. Face clean of grime.
Rune leaned back in his chair. “There.”
Alora didn’t know whether to thank him or scream.
“Have a seat, wife,” he said, suddenly behind her.
Alora squeaked in surprise and backed further away from him. “Please stop calling me that.”
She tried to run but Rune caught her waist and easily hoisted her onto his shoulder as if she weighed nothing at all.
“You accepted my ring, songbird,” he mused, striding for his bed. “That makes you, mywife.”
Alora cursed at the fetter on her finger, ruby glinting mockingly. “We both know I accepted out of desperation!” She kicked. “I had no choice!”
“Ah, but you made the choice nonetheless.” Rune dropped her onto the bed and leaned over her, caging her beneath his body. Her heart pounded as shadows spilled across the silk sheets, sliding cool against her skin like mist, making her shiver. “Did you not call for me again in your darkest hour?”
Out of foolish desperation.
“I wanted to be safe,” she whispered.
“And you are.” His black claws brushed her cheek, and she recoiled.
“Not with you!”
She shoved against him. He sat back on his heels with a low snicker. In that instant, Alora snatched the hilt of his sword and drew it free. Rune grinned, lifting his hands in mock surrender as she scrambled from the bed.
“Stay back!” Alora brandished the weapon. “If you come near me, I will stab you!”
Rune’s low chuckle washed over her, fangs glinting on the edges of his smile.“Promise?”
Her heart drummed beneath his softly glowing gaze.
He leaned up against the table behind him and crossed his arms, clearly amused. “Do you know how to use that?”
She scowled, willing herself not to shake while holding up the heavy hilt. “I have been instructed in how to use a sword.”
“Perhaps not this one.”
Alora glanced down. The blade was forged of some black ore she had never seen, veined with molten crimson that pulsated faintly, as though the blood of all those it had slain beat within. Wicked barbs protruded from the guard like claws, jagged and cruel, gleaming red in the candlelight.
It was no knight’s sword. It was a thing born of nightmare.
The longer she held it, the heavier it grew, her arms trembling under its weight. The grip was too warm, as though it burned with a life of its own. Shadows crawled along the edge, speaking in an indistinct tongue that prickled her skin and turned her stomach.
With a lazy flick of Rune’s finger, the weapon vanished into shadow. “Mm. Not quite your size yet, love. Noctharion bites… and he’d savor the sweetness in your veins. Best not tempt him.”
