Page 52 of The Bear King’s Bride

“Yes, you, Nemo.” Girion blocked the Fox’s path and saw Herrick leave his place near Jocasta and slowly start to sidle over. Good man. “Will you entertain a few questions I have about your banking practices involving the Watermans?”

“Uh. Well. Sure, Your Majesty. There was nothing fancy. Lots of rich folks buy up mortgages and deeds, you know, hoping that the owner will miss a payment or two, and then you get the property for cheap, or sell it higher.”

“And you are a rich man, Mr. Nemo? Or did I hear you called Mr. Reynard?”

“Someone mistook me for someone else. Reynard is a common name for Foxes in Caledon.”

“Is it? That’s odd. The only family of Foxes I know that has that name is the Archduke. Are you related, perchance?”

“No, I—” The Fox stopped speaking, turned, shifted, and scrambled out the door.

Gasps broke out. Heads turned. That bastard will not ruin my wife’s first big event as queen!

“Pardon me. Dropped a plate!” Girion said, kicked the Fox’s clothes under the nearest table, and fled.

Several of the other guards were already on the swift white streak scrambling through the palace halls. Girion was tempted to shift and give chase, but he thought engaging in a shifted battle would be a distraction from Jocasta’s summit. He put the thought away unless absolutely necessary. “Stop that Fox!”

His guards obeyed like their king’s life depended on it, clamoring and calling, cutting off every available exit.

The cornered Fox turned, saw Girion approaching, and lunged.

“No!” Cole’s shout echoed down the hall.

JOCASTA CAME RUNNING towards the scream, ignoring all protocols. She kicked off her fancy, brocaded shoes, held up her skirt, and ran. “Why is there screaming? What happened? Wh—Girion?”

The world fell apart.

Girion lay on the floor, hand at his throat, blood drenching his robes. Beside him, a white Fox, larger than a normal fox, clearly a shifter in animal form, was knocked unconscious but still breathing, blood all over its mouth.

Cole was speaking. Herrick was speaking. Girion was looking at her, lips not moving, eyes going glassy.

Words went through her mind.

He could have killed that little thing. Killed anything. But he didn’t have his shield. Or his sword. Or a knife. Because he was being my support today, the man who stood in the back and mingled, who made sure plates were full. The man who clapped for me.

Who loves me.

“No! No, no, he’s going to be fine! He’s—get off of me!” She shouted at the restraining hands and pushed her way to her husband’s side, dropping to her knees.

“Love you. So. Much.” Girion raised his bloodied hand to reach for her. Mouthing the words as he struggled to breathe.

“I love you. And you’re going to be my lover for the rest of our very, very long lives, Girion the Great,” she half-sobbed, tears pouring down her cheeks as her hands grabbed his throat.

Wind. Water. Earth.

Stop the water. Stop the red water. The blood must stop flowing from this wound. And the earth in us. The metal in us. Fuse and bind. Air in his lungs, wind in his breath, keep flowing.

And fire. Fire, fire, fire, fire, fire.

She had no fire magic, but fire—cauterizing a wound. She’d known it to be done, like when old Jake had his leg bitten by a dog, and it got infected, and it was the leg or his life. “Fire!” Jocasta screamed and felt it—felt the pulsing in her soul, not her blood or her lungs, or anything like that, but a deep pain that burnt from the inside out and seared her palms.

And stopped the bleeding. Sealed the wound.

“Jocasta?” Cole was near her.

“Your Majesty. Your parents are on their way. I’ve sent messengers,” Herrick whispered.

“He’s alive. Fetch the doctor, but I’m keeping my husband,” she hissed, then lay on Girion, too tired to stay upright, but not too tired to keep healing him.