Page 157 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

She’d unleashed a torrent of magic so powerful into Berian that the very air had seemed to thrum with it. There was no doubt she’d saved his life, but—along with the bewildering ward she’d put in place to confuse their attacker—she’d shown exactly how powerful she was.

She’d be asleep for most of a day after that display, and I couldn’t protect her while I dealt with our other problems. I started spouting orders. “Reina, I need five of your female servants.” Then, to the gathered men and Camrick: “Ten guards on my room—corridor, inside, and balcony. Now.”

Before leaving, I turned and met the stares of the Assembly delegation with a look that, I hoped, communicated what I was capable of. I didn’t like how unresponsive they were to attempted regicide, standing there as if dumbfounded. The only man in the lot who seemed to have his head on straight was Vaustin. And right now, I wanted to fucking cut that head off.

If he kept staring back, I would, so I turned to my guard captain and instructed, “Only Reina, Camrick, and I may enter my quarters. Kill anyone else who tries. Put the keep on alert.”

I carried Lunette out the door, eyes, magic, and mate bond all begging anyone to say a single fucking word about it.

More of the household guard had already amassed outside Berian’s room, creating a formidable wall of steel that lined the family corridor. Camrick’s deep voice echoed my orders behind me, punctuated by the heavy stomp of boots dragging the intruder to the dungeon.

I barely registered any of it. My focus never left Luna as I carried her through the corridor and into my chambers, shutting the world out behind us as I laid her gently on my bed.

I’d deal with the would-be assassin—after I settled my moonlight and made certain her security was prepared for anything. And when I did get my hands on the man who’d dared to get close to her, I wouldn’t be asking for answers. I’d be taking them.

I wanted to stay here. Wanted to lie beside her, one hand over her heart, until the panic clawing at my ribs finally relented. But I needed answers. And part of me wanted to delay the inevitable. The moment I stepped away, the darkness waiting at the back of my mind would take control.

I’d hated this part of myself for so long. Yet now, as I kissed Luna’s forehead and pulled the furs up to her chin, I found myself reveling in the chance to finally, justifiably, let it out.

Shadows, poised and ready to strike, stalked my every step down into the dungeon. The silence of the men as I entered the tight confines of the underground cells was too careful. Strain settled into the air as if everyone present had seen the danger and held their breath.

It was me they were worried about. Torchlight should’ve burned steadily even in the dungeon, but the flames guttered and shrank against the tide of barely restrained fury bleeding from my skin. Living tattoos that I couldn’t seem to shake away had taken up residence on my skin, making me look like a walking nightmare.

Now the guards kept their distance, retreating to the edges of the chamber as though proximity alone might keep my wrath from spilling over onto them. They knew that my darkness was born of protection, not destruction, but when I was like this, it was very difficult to tell the difference.

“Leave us,” I ordered.

Their footsteps faded up the corridor with a haste that might, in other circumstances, have been almost funny. Only Camrick remained where he always stood—at my shoulder, loose-limbed and unbothered, as though this were any other duty, and he wasn’t standing in a room slowly being devoured by hungry magic.

The assassin had been trussed—wrists, ankles, sack pulled tight over his head. Helpless.

But it wasn’t enough.

I grabbed the chair opposite him, deliberately dragging it across the stone floor with a terrible screech, and sat down. With a nod from me, Camrick removed the man’s hood.

He blinked once then stared straight back at me with hard eyes. He was older than I’d thought—past fifty. His face bore the imperturbability of someone who’d long ago mastered the art of hiding his feelings. A professional.

“Who sent you?” I asked conversationally.

He smiled faintly, almost amused. “Wasting your time.”

I inclined my head, as though conceding the point. Yet the way he held his left arm suggested he’d been injured in the struggle.

Perfect place to start when I decide to stop being nice.

“You came a long way to fail,” I suggested.

“Further than you know,” he said. His accent placed him from somewhere near Caervorn. “And I haven’t failed yet.”

There was something in the way he said it. But it was more than the simple fact that Berian could still die. His tone suggested there was a backstory between the words that had corroded his pride…

“What will they do to your family now?” I asked.

He said nothing, didn’t react whatsoever. My efforts to push him were far from over. A professional wouldn’t come into the king’s bedroom unless he had an entire world to lose. “Have a daughter they’re threatening to use for breeding stock? A wife?” Lately, with the decline in mage births only getting worse, it was all the Assembly seemed interested in.

The slight skip in his pulse, visible in his neck as he swallowed, was the only sign that I was probably on the right track. “They probably promised that if you died, they’d release her.”

He looked at me with the patient, faintly pitying expression of a man who’d rehearsed this exact conversation and felt quietly confident in his preparation.