Page 28 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

She hears his breath hitch, but his only response is a stoic nod and three powerful words: “I trust you.”

With the doors of the conservatory locked and Bryar standing guard outside, Myla and her council are able to speak freely, though voices stay hushed as the eerie feeling of being listened to lingers. The papers of the marriage contract lay untouched at the center of the table, Myla is open about the fact she has no intention of this situation outlasting a wedding between herself and Vesperian.

“Your Grace,” Lady Rivenna speaks. “You intend on confronting him yourself this evening? Do you believe that to be wise?” Her words are not spoken as a challenge; true fear seems to drive the question to the forefront of the conversation. There is no longer the air of defiance she felt from her council a few days prior. They may not like her these last few days, but their respect for her grows.

“I believe it is when he will least expect it,” Myla reasons. “But, no, I can not say with all certainty that it feels wise at all. Is any of this wise?” she responds, carefully rolling a quill between her fingers, knowing Vesperian will expect signatures to the contract when she returns to him this evening.

“I can not say your behavior at all, seems wise.” Maverick speaks, the only voice of contempt toward his daughter to be found in the room. “I imagine the late King, your husband, would be appalled.”

Eyes drift anxiously from him to Myla, no doubt waiting for her wrath to succeed the previous comment. Myla runs her tongue over her teeth, silencing the words which beg to be hurled her father’s way. Instead, she looks to the other faces in the room. “Would anyone like to offer helpful advice or should we waste our precious time listening to my father’s useless insults?”

Myla presses the quill into Maverick’s hand. “Insults do not kill father. If they did, you would have killed me long ago. Do you know what does kill? The Fae God who expects every signature to be on this contract. Including yours. He definitely kills.” Myla raises her eyebrows, watching as Maverick reluctantly leans over the contract, adding his signature to the list.

Lord Heron exchanges uneasy glances with his fellow members before speaking, seemingly on behalf of them all. “We have a plan, Your Grace. If you will hear us out?”

MYLA WEARS A simple green dress, nothing astonishing to draw attention. The neckline scoops just above her collarbone and modest sleeves button at her wrists. The skirt is full, concealing any shape she may have, and her hair is pulled into a sleek bun at the nape of her neck. More than anything, Myla wants to get through her night of charades without having to fend off advances from Vesperian. Taking an innovative approach, per her council’s advice, Myla imagines their message is on its way this very moment, hopefully carried by a swift raven. Lady Reacher now stands before her in the throne room, eyes swollen from hot tears and her body slight with disparity.

“Please, Your Grace. Tell me what has happened to Ariel.”

There is no straightforward answer. To show sympathy and admit that Ariel is being held in a discreet room, drugged into silence by Alaric until the Blood Stealer’s demise, would expose her plan. The more people knowing of her true stance, the higher the risk of an unplanned exposure. Myla can not be sure Lady Reacher’s late husband exposed their plan to his wife, and therefore, a callous response is the only safe one.

“Your daughter is being punished for her insubordination.” The words taste like rusting metal on her tongue. Never once in her five years as queen has Myla treated her subjects like pests to be dismissed. She comforts herself by focusing on the task at hand. In a matter of twelve or so hours, this should all be over. Hopefully, I am still here to see that, Myla thinks morbidly.

“She is . . . she is a good girl, Your Grace.” Tears swell down the sunken cheeks of the new widow, piercing the dagger of memories into Myla’s heart. The hopelessness, the directionless wandering. The first days of widowhood are bleak.

“Lady Reacher,” Myla seethes, certain the darkness forming in her eyes, despite the desire to comfort, does not fail her. “Unless you wish to leave your daughter an orphan, I suggest you silence yourself.” It is not an empty threat whatsoever. Desperate people do desperate things which usually lead to unbearable consequences. Says the Queen of Desperate . . . something, I am wise to remember.

A harrowing cry slips from the poor woman as she turns away, making her way out of Myla’s presence, leaving guilt and an urgency to right things in her wake. The silence does not last long, however, for the vigilant fiancé, Vesperian Shayd enters, his hands hidden behind his back in a cunningly mysterious way.

Afternoon light glints off the dark streaks of hair brushing against his forehead and lines of scars travel across his arms and neck. In the daylight he is the epitome of a handsome, misunderstood villain. Only, he is not misunderstood, merely unstoppable. He is handsome, dangerously so, making him lethal for an entirely different reason than one might expect of the Blood Stealer.

Elsa’s poorly timed joke rings in her ears. You can be at my service any day. He is a deadly sort of alluring. The kind that lures you in, convincing you that it is your idea, then completely ruins you, right after he has devoured your values, leaving you hollow and helpless. If he were to have been a woman, one might refer to him as a siren. Unfortunately for him, his voice does not captivate her.

“You hide something from me,” she says, tilting her chin toward his concealed arms, unease stirring in her middle.

“Show me, or I will be forced to make you.”

A dangerous smile melts the frost of his icy features. “That sounds rather tempting, darling. Unfortunately for me, there are no cuffs on my bedposts—the late king seems a dull fellow. In any case, making me do anything might prove hard for you.”

Her middle constricts with the lurch of her breath. His effect, not her own. She reminds herself the insatiable attraction is fabricated, a temptation of his own design. “Making you do what I want though,” he whispers, moving closer and closer with an inhuman precision, appearing to glide. “I could make you fall to your knees now and beg me to take you to bed. I could make you cut your own throat with the dagger I know is hidden beneath your skirts.” His hand trails down her waist, knotting a handful of silk between his fists. Myla swallows, her lips parting as she licks her dry lips, anxious for something to moisten them. Stop it. Even his threat of a gruesome murder feels exhilarating. Arousing, even.

“Shall I lift up your skirt and see what else you hide from me?”

Gathering her wits, painfully aware of the uneasily shifting guards in the room, Myla forces a demure smile and presses a hand to his chest. “Only if you show me what you hide behind your back. Is it for me?”

He lets out a slow, playful sigh before revealing a blue vial the size of his little finger. It is corked and sealed with black wax making it look like something she and her mother would make with the druids. “On the topic of controlling you,” he continues, “do you know what I hold here?”

Myla shakes her head. The contents of the vial are a deep velvet crimson. There is a pulsing glow within it, clearly not a naturally occurring element. “What is it?” Myla asks, having an uncontrollable need to reach out and seize the vial.

Vesperian retreats, shoving the vial into his pocket before linking his fingers with hers, holding her closer than proper. Not that anything proper has occurred inside these palace walls in a week. Her mind escapes to thoughts of Bryar’s fingers, then back to the present. Her body is unwittingly responding to Vesperian’s pull, allowing him to own her, should he wish to. Fingers are fingers. The thought is jolting, and Myla attempts to reason with herself. He wants to own you, you fucking moron. Stop being weak.

Vesperian’s words are enough to bring her back to reality. “It is an oath reversal which my healer concocted at my request.”

Myla stiffens, feeling delirious at the prospect that her cure is mere inches away. This thing which has plagued her existence for the last twenty-four months could be cured today, if only she can get her hands on that vial.

“Careful,” Vesperian whispers, his lips flicking her ear. “You are going to hurt my feelings if you look like you want that any more than you already do. More than you want me.”

Myla checks her breathing before placing a tender hand on his cheek. “You can not blame me for wanting to know my feelings for you are my own.”