Page 30 of Given to the Black King

I do not sleep that night. I lie in the dark with his thumbprint fading from my pulse and wonder what would happen if I stopped making him hold back.

TORGAN

The third night after she pours my wine, after two days of informal working conferences over winter supply and joint tolls, I hear bare feet in the west passage.

I am alone in the great hall. The lamps are low. The throne arm is split almost to the carved base. I have not allowed the mason to touch it.

Her steps come closer.

I should leave.

Instead, I sit very still and listen to her heart climb.

The far door opens.

Iona stands there in a dark robe with her hair loose over one shoulder. No guard. No servant. Nothing between her and me but sixty paces of empty stone.

“You should be asleep,” I say.

“So should you.”

She starts down the hall.

“Stop.”

She does, but only for a breath. “Your guards did not.”

“What?”

“They let me pass, but not one of them would come with me.” She glances back at the shut doors. “The last man pointed down this corridor and wished me luck.”

“He should not have done that.”

“Let me pass?”

“Wished you luck.”

She smiles.

I bare my fangs.

The robe is belted tightly, but her skin is warm from sleep. I can smell it. I can also smell the change in her as she sees my mouth.

She keeps walking.

“Iona.”

The name leaves me before I decide to use it.

She stops at the foot of the dais.

Since she rode beneath my gate, everyone else has called her Envoy, my lady, or some title I could keep at a distance. Her name is different. It fits too easily behind my teeth.

“There,” she says quietly. “Now we have been introduced.”

“Do not come any closer.”

“Why?”