“Zevayr,” his father reprimands, leaning forward on the throne. “If you suspect the princess is impure, I cannot allow—”
“I took the liberty of … inspecting Mayah’s purity. During our journey.”
The silence that falls over the room is deafening.
Humiliating.
My stomach drops, hot embarrassment flushing my cheeks. I can’t decide if I want to kiss Zev or slap him.
Two sets of green eyes fix on me. Tides, I wish the earth would split open and swallow me whole.
“Took many liberties with my betrothed, did you?” Faramir croons menacingly. His eye twitches.
“A happy coincidence that Mayah ismybetrothed now,” Zev shoots back. “No harm done.”
“She isnow, but—”
“Enough.” Varad raises a silencing hand, and Faramir falls quiet, though I don’t miss the outrage flickering in his cold, green gaze. “Zevayr, get your betrothed settled, then return here. At once.”
Zev ushers me from the hall, his hand warm on my lower back. He calls over the nearest servant, giving her instructions about which rooms to prepare for me.
Then, he pulls six guards from their posts. “If so much as a gentle breeze dares to touch her, if even an invisiblesplinterpierces her skin, you will each suffer a slow and brutal death. Your screams will echo for weeks. Your families will have nothing to bury. Do. You.Understand?” he snarls, eyes blazing with violent promise.
The guards nod frantically, slack-jawed with equal parts shock and horror.
“I’ll keep you safe, Mayah,” Zev promises. One more squeeze to my hand, and then he disappears back into the throne room.
It’s the most distance we’ve had between us in over a month.
And even with six guards sworn to my protection, I’ve never felt more vulnerable.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hotwaterlapsatmy skin, and it feels like heaven.
The water, at least—the three handmaids scrubbing the grime from my skin feel like a punishment. Since we arrived at my guest chambers, I’ve been stripped, scraped, and scrubbed of my dignity.
The water has turned a disgusting shade of brown, the color of snow after a herd of musk ox have trampled through and back.
But at least I’m clean.
One of the handmaids drains the large tub, and I try to rise, but another one guides me back down with a firm hand on my shoulder.
Not clean enough, apparently.
There’s a sudden, loud crack of thunder, its muffled echo rattling the ornate mirror above the sink, and I gasp. The handmaids don’t seem to notice, though. They must be accustomed to unexpected storms—or Zev’s outbursts.
They refill the tub, and this time, perfume it with rose petals. A sweet-smelling oil is massaged into my scalp, and a contented sigh escapes me. One of the handmaids smiles, but none ofthem will meet my eyes for longer than a fleeting second. The bathwater is clean now, perfumed and rosy, but the unease in my chest lingers.
Do they avoid my gaze because I’m a royal? Or is it because I’m aTundrayniroyal?
I doubt I’ll get an answer out of them, but the women seem pleasant enough, quiet though they may be.
When the longest bath of my life is over, they dress me in an indecently short black nightgown, with nothing but a matching silk robe over it.
I’m practically naked. In Tundrayn, I wore thick wool pajamas to sleep—it was too cold for anything else. Before I can request different sleep attire, the women file out of the large washroom.
I don’t leave right away. The room is elegant—spacious and luxurious. The ornate stone tub sits in the center. The walls are painted a soft, calm lavender, and the white tile is cool beneath my bare feet as I circle the room. My fingers trail against the walls—seamless purple paint, not a single crack marring the finish.
