Page 110 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

“Shame,” he said. “All it took was dying to get you in my bed.”

Oh dear gods, please tell me I didn’t walk into something about to turn very awkward.

My hands went still at my sides. My gaze shot toward Reina and I realized I was very very wrong.

But Reina didn’t even blink—like she was used to being talked to like this. If anything, her smile softened with fond indulgence. It was a performance so smooth that I almost doubted the tension I still saw in her posture.

There was something between them. Something I didn’t like because it reeked of coercion. Queen Isca had warned me that Owain’s relationship with his brother was complicated, but seeing this made me think the full picture was darker than I’d thought.

I stepped forward when she gestured me closer. “Your Majesty,” she said lightly, “this is Owain’s friend. A grand magus of healing.”

Berian’s gaze drifted over me more slowly this time. “How rare for my shadow to bring home a gift.”

Was that supposed to be a compliment? Or did he mean it literally?

The tone he’d used when he’d called Owain “my shadow” made protective heat flare in my chest. He spoke with a dismissive air, implying that his magic was a mark of imperfection. That was the same tone people used in Selmont when referring to my heritage—disdain sprinkled with possession.

Did the king think he owned his brother? Me?

In the ways that mattered, he did. The divide between the brothers yawned wider in my mind. My objective here wasn’t to repair relationships, only bodies.

“I’ll have to place my hands beneath your tunic, Your Majesty,” I said, forcing my voice into something clinical.

He grunted affirmation, eyes still hungry on Reina.

I adjusted the furs as I moved on the opposite side of the bed. I slipped my hands under the hem of his tunic, careful, professional, though my pulse was less steady than I would’ve liked.

At the same time, Reina took his hand, almost as if the action were a distraction. “Berian,” she said softly. “Theresa is dead.”

As I inspected my previous work, I watched as Berian’s brow furrowed faintly. His expression lacked depth. There was no sorrow. No anger—only calculation flickered from behind half-lidded eyes.

I had just begun to push the first strands of magic out through my hands when it faltered for half a second. I stared at the place where my hands disappeared beneath his tunic, suddenly acutely aware of the king’s pulse beneath my fingers—and the way it didn’t stutter or even quicken with grief.

He only huffed a breath that might have been a laugh and said, “Inconvenient.”

I knew marriages at his level of society were often political, but still. His wife had been dead for less than a day.

Reina’s fingers tightened around his. “I’m sorry, Berian.”

“I’ll have to remarry,” he said, voice drifting.

My hands stilled again before I forced them to move, rending one tiny invisible scar after the other that had been choking his organs. Easy, low-cost magic only.

“Yes,” Reina said coolly.

He turned his head toward her, a faint spark of life returning with my warming magic. “You.”

“I’m too old to bear you an heir,” she replied smoothly.

Berian offered a languid, pleased smile. “Part Fae. Doesn’t matter.”

“It most certainly does,” she insisted. I knew that wasn’t true, but I’d rather eat glass than correct her in that moment.

Her smile didn’t falter, but something in her eyes went flat. “I would make a dreadful queen.”

On the other side of the bed, my magic burned hotter than it should have. I had to clamp down on it before I accidentally created new scars instead of destroying them.

Berian was speaking of remarriage as if selecting a new cloak, one step away from proposing to the woman who’d just told him his wife was dead. Utterly distasteful.