Page 31 of Of Bargains & Betrayal

The tone of Gallan’s voice was familiar now as he traded a couple of hushed words with the mage, plus a beat of laughter, before he strode over to the barred door of my cell.

“Sleep much?” he asked with an appraising glance around my cell.

I shook my head before letting it roll back against the stone wall I was pressed against.

The only silver lining to the cool, cragged stone was that it felt fucking amazing on my flushed skin, seeing as my shirt was so threadbare, I may as well not have been wearing one.

“Shame.” He pursed his lips and took a glance back down the cellblock, toward where I had glimpsed their modest guard station.

I couldn’t fathom what he might be looking for, but it took a solid moment for him to turn his attention back to me.

“Need anything? Water? More mediocre bread?” he asked. When I shook my head again, he added, “You sure? Might be a while before you get anything else. Maksym is on his way for you.”

That sent a band of tension snapping up my spine.

“Already?” I croaked. “Why?”

Gallan shrugged. “Beats me. If there’s one thing I’d suggest you learn sooner rather than later about our king, it’s that he drums to a completely different tune than the rest of the troops, if you know what I mean.”

Maybe if I hadn’t been sleep-deprived, sicker than I’d ever been, and imprisoned in fucking Grimmoria, I might have known what Gallan meant by that.

My flicker of confusion must have been clear, because Gallan chuckled and added, “Maksym’s actions…well, they don’t always make sense in the moment, but he rarely does anything without profound purpose. He’s yet to do us wrong, even if he doesn’t always remember to tell us first.”

Was this my jailer’s way of trying to paint the offer his king made me in a different light? It seemed like that was what he was getting at, and I was surprised it had taken anyone this long to try persuading me, as if the offers of immediate death, drawn-out death, or death to my soul could be painted in any light other than what they really were—poorly veiled coercion.

After all, I’d come to Grimmoria to get married, hadn’t I?

Why wouldn’t I just take the simple way out of my alleged trespassing and high forgery, seeing as I accepted my shitty hand of fate ages ago?

Why wouldn’t I want to marry the dark fae king who claimed to know nothing of me, who made the offer of servitude like it were as simple as a dinner invitation? And who couldn’t or hadn’t been bothered to find a wife amongst his own bloody people. For a man with such ethereal beauty, that painted a worrying picture of his genuine person.

“Just food for thought for ya,” Gallan added with a shrug before his attention flitted upward and trailed along the stone ceiling. He was silent for a few moments before he sighed. “Well, that’s the end of that. Best of luck today, Miss Wynn.”

More than a little confused, I glanced up at the ceiling, squinting, then back at Gallan, but he was already walking away.

“What do you mean?” Silence. “Gallan! Wait, come back. That’s the end of what?”

The creak of a chair, a sigh, and the cracks of new logs yielding to flame were my response.

“Asshole,” I muttered as I tugged my damp, worthless blanket tighter around me.

Just as I’d gotten comfortable again, nestled back in the corner, quietly praying that another wave of nausea wasn’t about to sneak up on me, the cellblock door gave its screech of protest again. Someone needed to put the damned thing out of its misery already.

“Morning, my liege,” Gallan called out from wherever he’d made himself comfortable as Maksym strode in.

He looked much as he had the day before, with his lengthy dark hair half-pulled back. His clothing was far more befitting a lesser member of court than its damned king: a simple black vest over his white tunic, with sleeves rolled up his toned and tattooed forearms.

He was carrying something too, but I couldn’t make it out through the bars of my cell.

When I’d stood beside him in the cellar the night before, I’d thought how the air had a strange habit of shifting in his presence, like it was desperate to give him space, was a figment of my weary imagination.

Now, there was no denying it, just as there was no point in trying to fight being engrossed by his amber-black eyes.

Clearly, my observation was not discreet, because Maksym rolled those eyes and unlocked my cell door with a sigh. He dropped his parcel at the foot of my cot.

I realized then it was clothing, one piece of which seemed to have a fucking ruffle, and my eyebrows climbed. Fuck, there was even a pair of short boots.

“Get dressed,” he said. “We’re going for a walk, Miss Wynn.”