Page 35 of The Poison Princess and the Lord of Misrule

A flush heats my skin, and I bury my smile.

We both leave the queen’s library, descending the staircase in silence. Ren pauses behind the tapestry, his hand finding my elbow once to steady me, then we’re back inside the corridor, surrounded by the noise and the chaos of a wedding I do not want and cannot stop.

We walk in opposite directions, and I don’t look back, not knowing whether he does either. But I feel his gaze on my spine the entire length of the gallery.

We’re in dangerous territory now. But haven’t I trodden safely my whole life?—and look where it’s landed me. Right in the maw of a beast—King Aldric Vaelstrom.

I realize I’m in danger—but not from any of the king’s cruelties. From myself, from what I might sacrifice if this feeling aching in my chest burrows any deeper.

I came here with one purpose.

It’s foolish to wish it could be different.

Yet I never thought I’d find something—someone—I could want more than to end the reign of a king who terrorizes so many realms.

But for the first time, the tally marks in my wardrobe don’t feel like a countdown to a wedding. They feel like a measure of something else entirely. The distance between the girl who arrived in this palace, sealed and silent and certain of her purpose—and the woman who didn’t just let a jester catch her, but who—goddess help her—wants to be caught.

Chapter 11

Seravyn

The great hall has gone mad.

Tonight, the world is upside down. The court has been throwing itself into the feast for hours, drowning the imminent war in cask after cask of Aldric’s best wine. The minstrels are playing badly on purpose. The footmen are pouring wine onto the stone floor in mock toasts. A lord is wearing a kitchen maid’s apron. The kitchen maid is wearing his sash. Two of the hall’s velvet curtains have been torn down and turned into gowns for women who dance, most of their skin on display.

And everywhere, courtiers are finding ways to bask in the reverie, turning chaste court decorum into a feast of lust—groping, dancing, kissing.

This is the Lord of Misrule.

What folly looks like when it’s been sanctioned by a tyrant of a king.

I sit at the high table in a gown of crimson silk that Aldric has chosen for me, the bodice fitted so snug I have to take shallow breaths not to spill out of the extremely low neckline. The skirt cuts a high slit up my leg.

Aldric sits beside me. His hand has been on my thigh for the better part of the first hour. His fingers spread possessive over the silk, his rings cool through the fabric, and every so often he slides his thumb in a slow circle, testing, reminding me who I belong to.

I take a sip of wine, just to dull the sharp fury of it.

The king’s official court jester is a short, stocky man named Prineus. Tradition states that, during the Lord of Misrule feast, the court fool can sit on the king’s throne, preside over the feast, and mock the courtiers—and even the king himself—without consequence. Though no fool has truly been foolish enough to test it against King Aldric.

I turn my gold wine goblet by the stem. “When do the actual festivities begin, My Lord?” I ask this to keep things light between us, and in the hopes of hurrying the feast along. “I’ve heard that Prineus’s act during the feast is highly entertaining.”

Aldric’s cheek rests against his fist, and he slowly cocks his head my way. “Is my bride so easily bored?” he says, his thumb continuing to leisurely swirl. “As I understand it, you’ve found plenty of ways to keep yourself amused while I’ve been detained away from court.”

My neck straightens. “Of course. So many things haveto be done before the wedding,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I’ve been kept plenty busy.”

He hums a gruff sound from deep in his chest. “Interesting, considering you’ve yet to get fitted for your wedding gown.”

I take another slow sip of wine.

Aldric shifts, leaning closer to me, his voice lowering. “I don’t so much mind where you seek entertainment, love,” he says, a threat hedged beneath his words. “So long as come our wedding night, the sheets are left crimson.”

At this, I meet his cold blue eyes, unable to hide the sudden shock in my features. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, My Lord.”

A lopsided grin tugs at his full lips. “As a princess of the Thorn Court, I find that difficult to believe,” he says, then merely turns his attention to the dancing courtiers. “I had thought that, by accepting my father’s dying wish to make peace with Threnmere by marrying its most beloved princess, I was doing the noble thing.” Aldric leans close to me once more. “I confess that, against my better judgement, I was resigned to this course. A means to an end. And I wanted to do little more with you than fuck an heir into you, then place you away, out of my sight.”

The air vacates my lungs. I hold his severe gaze, trying not to blink, to flinch. To show any sign of distress or the fury seething in my veins.

Aldric’s smile pulls higher at the corner of his mouth. He moves in, placing his lips right up againstmy ear. “Then you arrived, and every day since, I’ve had to look at the sadness in your eyes, your pouty little mouth. Your breasts heaving above your bodice, as if the strain to simply breathe costs you.” He backs away, finding my gaze. “I couldn’t figure you out, Morvaine. How to appease you, make you happy enough to please my kingdom with its queen. And then, I tried not to think of you at all.”