Page 51 of The Poison Princess and the Lord of Misrule

To have and to hold, he vows…

And I think of his hands on her wrists, the bruises blooming purple he put there.

To cherish and protect. I think of the bite on her breast, the teeth marks broken into her skin.

Until death?—

And it’s the weight of the glass shard in my hand, the sharp edge cutting into my palm, how close I came.

When it’s Sera’s turn to give her vows, I nearly walk out. Not knowing if I’m strong enough to hear her make those vows to him just days after I swore mine to her.

But her voice, when it comes, is steady. It holds me anchored. Low and careful, every word weighed, the voice I’ve come to love, saying words I’d give my life to have her say to me.

Yet she vows herself to him. Her body, her soul. She speaks them clearly, without a tremor, the perfect bride, and only I can see the way her hands are clasped white-knuckled to his.

When the priest pronounces them wed, when Aldric lifts the crimson veil and takes her face in his ringed hands, for just a fraction of a second, Sera’s gaze shifts to find me.

My heart slams against my ribs, and I’m unable to hide the pain, her face blurring as the tears crest my lash line. Her mouth parts. A tear falls.

Then he’s pulling her face toward him. Aldric slants his mouth over hers, claiming her with a long, slow kiss that sends a river of anguish and fury rushing my bloodstream.

I’m out of the cathedral before it ends, hearing the court erupt into applause in my wake.

The organ swells and it’s over.

But for me, this torture has only begun.

As I storm from the ceremony, I taste her on my lips, the memory of her.Let me give you something that isn’t his, I breathe through the rage and the grief and the helplessness until I’m clear of the cheering court.

She is the Queen of Kravenholt.

She belongs to him now, in the eyes of gods and men.

And I am still the fool at the back of the room, with ridiculous bells and a flayed-open heart, who swore on his sister’s grave that he would not interfere.

By the time the wedding feast arrives, I’m a pit of self-loathing and malice.

I didn’t think anything could be worse than watching her give herself to him, but Aldric is a creature of appetites. Chief among them is cruelty, and tonight he’s drunk on triumph and wine in equal measure.

The great hall blazes with a thousand candles. The court gorges itself. Aldric sits at the head of the high table with his new queen at his right hand, and Seravyn sits there in her blood-red gown, pale as a ghost, her smile carved on and brittle.

Every so often he leans over and says something to her, his mouth at her ear, and I watch her endure it, watch her nod, watch her lift her goblet when he commands a toast.

Amid the celebration, I’m made to perform.

Of course I am. It’s my only function, my purpose, the reason I’m permitted in this hall at all. And tonight, with his bride won and his rival cowed, Aldric has decided to dig the proverbial knife deep.

“Jest,” he bellows, halfway through thefeast, his face flushed with wine. And I loathe him even more for using Sera’s nickname. “Come. Entertain your king and queen.”

As this is my station, I can’t deny my king. I swore an oath that I wouldn’t interfere, that I’d play my part and trust my princess—now, my queen. So I bow and I caper, and the court laughs, and Aldric laughs loudest of all.

“Dance,” he commands.

I dance. Badly. The way I danced for no one but Kammy, except now it’s for a hall full of jeweled vultures and the man who put bruises on the woman I love. They howl with laughter. I let them.

Something cruel and devious carves his features, and then he commands, “Now beg.” Aldric’s eyes glitter, cold and hard. "On your knees, fool. Beg your queen for a scrap from her plate.”

The hall roars.