The servant’s eyes swept the room until they landed on Ronan and held. “The prince,” he whispered. “The prince is dead.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Verena
STEAM SHROUDED ME, CLOUDING THE ROOM IN A HAZE.
The spray of the shower rumbled like distant rainfall, soothing as I tilted my head back, letting the heat wash me clean.
But last night still clung.
The ball had been spun from decadence and deception. Laughter sharpened with lies, wine dark as blood, glances that promised more than they would ever give.
My gown had bound me in sin, every step a performance as they drank me in with equal parts reverence and desire.
And then there had been Ronan.
He had looked at me, a man torn in half, unsure if he wanted to worship or kill me.
A bitter smile ghosted my lips beneath the spray. If only he knew how close I’d come. How vividly I’d imagined it, how wide his smoke-choked eyes would go when his blood slid down the curve of his throat.
My fingers pressed hard into the stone, veins pulsing. And yet—he had helped me,touchedme, like I was more than a monster.
“Fool,” I whispered. “You should’ve done it while you had the chance.”
But I can’t, I reminded myself.Not yet. Not until Elva is freed.
The water turned cold, goose bumps prickling my body as I shut it off, dragging a hand through soaked hair, slicking it back. The towel, damp from the winter air, did little to help the chill.
Still half lost in the echo of his voice, I padded barefoot into my room, checking for any misplaced shadows or looming wisps of fired spice.
That’s when I saw it.
A slip of pale parchment, folded once and marked with no seal, left atop my vanity where there had been nothing before.
I was sure of it.
My heart stuttered, feet swift against the floorboards as I crossed the room. Droplets traced my spine, chilling me thoroughly as I reached, unfolding it hastily.
One glance, that was all it took for the drums to start in my ears, a pounding dread moving to my chest.
I didn’t bother to dress properly, just shoved myself into the nearest clothes—dark trousers, a loose tunic, boots half on. My cloak, still cold from the night before, wrapped my shoulders as I rushed out of the cottage.
The night had gone perfectly.Too perfect.
And now the gods, or worse, had tipped the board.
Gemma’s cottage didn’t breathe with its usual comfort as I entered.
The air felt different, oddly unsettled.
Floorboards creaked beneath my boots as I crept across the kitchen, righting a fallen stool. Vials and mugs lay shattered across the table, herbs and spices scattered, some already crushed into the grain of the wood.
A shutter slammed against the window above the sink, my head whipping toward the sound, pulse jolting. Outside, the ginger-stained sky had soured, burning mauve as dusk bled in.
Run.
I swallowed the shiver rising. “Gem?” The parchment in my fist crackled as I crossed the wrecked kitchen.
