Page 116 of Their Wicked Cage

A male clears his throat. I whirl around, expecting to find one of Riven’s guards. Except it’s⁠—

“Lord Devlin,” I say with a startled laugh. “You frightened me.”

“Sneaking in or sneaking out?” he asks, tone laced with disapproval.

He tucks something up his sleeve, but I’m not sure what. The hall is too shadowed, my mind too sleep-deprived.

“Neither,” I lie. “I was just checking on the king after the ball and noticed his guards weren’t posted outside his door. You snuck up on me before I could knock and alert him about his guards not being present.”

His gaze is a slow crawl over me, and I can only imagine what I look like to him with my sex-touseled hair and wearing Riven’s shirt⁠—

I glance down at myself and grimace.

“Right,” he says dryly. “For a king who has a gaggle of brides throwing themselves at him, I’m quite surprised he’s so smitten with you.”

I push past him at the insult. “Goodnight, Lord Devlin.”

He catches me by the arm. “What is it about you that entices him so? Why does he weaken himself to protect you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say. “Now unhand me or I’ll scream.”

He releases me with more force than necessary, and I stumble backward.

“If Riven means anything to you, you will keep your little trap shut about this encounter.”

My eyes drift to Riven’s door. I could make a run for it, throw myself into the safety of the king’s bedroom, and tell him what’s just happened, that Lord Devlin might have an idea as to what’s going on.

Lord Devlin shifts, positioning himself between me and safety.

Dagny, save me. My face really must be that easy to read.

I cast around for another exit, gaze snagging on the tapestry to our left.

The staff corridor.

I could escape into it, put as much distance between me and him as possible.

But what if he follows? Then I’d be alone in the dark with him, and I don’t think I could outrun him.

A cold sweat breaks out along the back of my neck, but I remain calm. I’ve survived worse than a male desperate for power.

“What do you want?” I ask, keeping my voice low and steady.

“I want you to listen.” He sucks his teeth, thin lips making a smacking sound. “When Riven’s mother decreed me as the Covenant-Tongue, I took a vow to protect this kingdom until my very last breath. Riven, however, is making that incredibly difficult with this bizarre idea of his to marry an otherworld female.”

“You’re wrong. Riven is doing the very thing you vowed to do.”

“Did I say you could speak?” His nostrils flare. “You’re going to convince him to change his mind.”

“I will do no such thing,” I say boldly. “He is your king. You’re supposed to accept his wishes.”

His laugh chafes, simultaneously haughty and weak. “You think because he’s my king, I must jump when he says jump and bow when he says bow? That’s not how politics work, witch. Royals are meant to be bent by the will of their people, their council.”

“So that’s how you ended up as the Covenant-Tongue,” I muse, accusation dripping over every syllable. “You manipulated a heartbroken female and bent her to your will.”

The back of his hand connects with my cheek in a vicious sting that rings out down the hallway. Tears spring to my eyes, but I do not make a sound. It may have been centuries since I’ve been disciplined, yet my body remembers exactly what to do—chin up, lips sealed, eyes forward.

Don’t scream, don’t cry, don’t give them the satisfaction.