That’s the nice thing about having a shadow dog. It doesn’t eat or poop. It’s the perfect pet.
I’ve just taken a bite when the door opens and in walks Stave. He sees me and halts, his polished shoes skidding to a stop.
“Are you okay?”
I look behind me. “Are you asking me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep.”
“Ah.” The worried look on his face dissolves.
“Why? Should I not be?”
He flicks his hand. “No, it’s just this place sometimes scares people.”
“The place?” I lift my brow. “Or Eryx?”
He grimaces. “A little of both.” He opens a cabinet door. “Coffee?”
“Please. I didn’t know where you kept it.”
“Cook should be in soon, and she’ll be angry you’ve already eaten. Though you’ve picked a great meal.”
I laugh at that and brush crumbs off my shirt. “I’ll stop. This queen doesn’t want to insult anyone.”
Stave laughs, and it’s a warm, friendly sound. “You don’t need to worry about insulting anyone. It’s the other way around.”
“Please tell the staff not to act in a strange way around me. I’m just a regular person.”
His eyes sharpen. “No, you’re not. You’ve married the king of Nightmares. A man who could, if he wanted, kill someone with a nightmare.”
His words hang there for a moment. “And has he ever done that?”
“Not that I know of. But Nightmare has.”
Nightmare. The being in his head.
Stave dumps grounds into a filter and turns the percolator on. When he’s finished, he faces me and drops his hands onto the counter behind him, lightly drumming his fingers.
“Should I be worried about Nightmare?”
It’s obsessed with you,Eryx told me.
“No,” Stave replies. “Nightmare killed people when it was tied to Eryx’s father, the last king. But since Eryx has taken the power, he hasn’t killed anyone—even though I’m sure Nightmare would like to.”
A shiver winds down my spine. Nightmare would like to kill someone? And Eryx is stopping it?
“Like, whom?” I ask quietly.
“I’m afraid that’s something he’ll have to tell you.”
“Who will have to tell what?”
I turn and see Eryx in the doorway. His hair is mussed, like he just got up. He’s wearing black silk pajamas, and there’s something in his eyes—relief? worry?—that makes my stomach flip.
His gaze locks on me, and some of that tension leaves his shoulders. “Good morning.”
