Page 69 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“I want to marry you, and I want to raise that child with you, and I want you to be happy. Do you think after all this time I actually give a fuck what any of your subjects want from you? They have had plenty of you, and now, I want you back.”

Myla grinds her bottom lip between her teeth, the pounding in her chest drowning out the splattering rain drops upon the ground. “No buts?”

“There will never be any ‘buts’ about you or the baby, Myla. That is what I will always want, so long as I do not have to do it in secret.” He steps closer now, moving wet locks of hair from her face. “You once asked me to hold on to her—to keep the girl you were tucked away safely in my memories. I did not just keep her in my memories.” He presses a flat palm to his heart. “Who you were before all of this, she is still right here where you left her, and I really want her to come back to me.”

Myla ignores the stinging in her nose and grinds her teeth together until the sensation passes. Not daring to look at him lest he crack her resolve, she lies. “That girl does not exist anymore, Bryar. You need to let her go.”

BREAKFAST IS UNCOMFORTABLE, to say the least. In his time here, Bryar seems to have formed many friendships, one of which being Phaenna. When Myla joins him in the morning, she finds the spot across from him is occupied by the beautiful Ashborn girl. They appear to be deep in lively banter that she wishes she could cut short with a swift clobber to the back of Phaenna’s head. When Bryar sees her, standing back and waiting for a suitable time to cut in, he says something to Phaenna and she nods understanding, taking her leave.

You will not be a jealous bitch; do you understand me? She commands herself, pasting a pleasantly indifferent smile on her face as she advances, intending to claim the seat warmed by the intruder’s perfectly round ass. Myla forces herself to exchange nothing less than a warm greeting with the girl as they pass one another.

“Good morning,” her tone is impeccable, and Myla is pleased with her delivery until Phaenna responds.

“Mornings are always good after nights like last evening.” Her brazen statement is followed by a flirtatious glance over her shoulder in Bryar’s direction.

Myla stops dead in her tracks, watching Phaenna leave the now quiet breakfast hall. Her gaze drifts back to Bryar and a swell of betrayal ruins her appetite.

He did not. There is no way. Swallowing her wounded pride, Myla sits, avoiding Bryar’s intent gaze as he analyzes her.

“What is wrong?”

“Straight to the point, huh? Seems to be a common theme this morning.” Her voice trembles and her attempt at sounding comical fails entirely. Nothing but hurt is conveyed, causing a look of concern to wash over the disgustingly handsome man’s face across from her. Of course, Phaenna is quick to lay claim. Any woman who does not is a fucking idiot.

Oh, me. That is me. I am the fucking idiot. The queen of idiots—get me a crown for that one, Father. I can wear it until I die beneath the crushing weight of idiocy.

“What do you mean?” Bryar probes, sliding a cup of tea toward her, steaming hot and prepared in advance for her.

Wooing two women at once. Get him a crown too, Father. We are all idiots here, it would seem.

Myla pushes the tea aside. “What did you do last night after we went inside?”

A crease forms in his brow. Confusion? Concern at being caught? Contemplating how best to answer? Whatever it may be, Myla does not want to hear it. “Never mind. What you do in your bedroom is no longer any of my concern. Can we just get on with this? When will Rhyland return?”

Bryar, stunned, leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” she asks, annoyed. “Is that not why I am here right now? So, you can tell me whatever it is you need to . . . as my captain?”

“It is,” he responds coolly, “but I am not going to answer your questions until you answer mine.”

“You have to,” she retorts. “I am your queen.”

Bryar rolls his eyes and leans on his elbows, his words a taunting whisper. “No.”

“Bryar!” she snaps, her voice an octave higher than she intends. “Please, for the love of the Gods, just tell me what I am going home to, so I can plan my return!”

He sighs, pushing her tea back in front of her. “Drink. You will not like a single thing I have to say.”

The shift in his inflection carries a warning and Myla drops the petulant defenses. “What is it?” She takes a long sip of tea, refusing to admit she is grateful for it.

“Rhyland will be here by nightfall. He brings about forty percent of your armies with him—those who remain loyal to your cause.” His words shatter around her, and questions spill from her lips before she can impart any patience on herself.

“What? Why? Loyal to me? Where will they—”

“In your absence, the Blood Stealer claimed about ten percent of your army before returning to the Seam. It is said he has captives with him, but Rhyland did not disclose who. Once the palace was uninhabited, various lords of the realm descended, and there was a battle for the throne.”

Myla stands, the half-empty teacup before her sloshing to the floor and shattering at her feet. “What? This can not be.”

He nods; his face grievous. “Myla . . . your father did not die. However, in your absence . . . he has claimed the Raven Throne for himself. There is no palace to return to now. Not without a fight.”