Page 72 of Ashborne Phoenix

I clutched at my skirts, preparing to run to him, but there was no need.

The crowds at the back parted and my mate strode forward, dressed as luxuriously as the king, his dark hair slicked back to frame his clean-shaven face, the high cheekbones and angular features only emphasized by the strange light in the chamber.

He strode forward as if the room belonged to him, heels clicking on the checkered tiles.

On either side, the women stared with petty glee, while the men frowned and measured him.

He marched straight to his mother’s side, just feet from me, though he never once looked at me. And when he came to stop, offered a flourishing, elegant bow.

“Your Majesties,” he said with cold satisfaction. “I apologize for my belated arrival.”

There was a strange, twisted roar from my side—Breckon trying desperately to speak, but unable, as his throat continued to close.

“What the fuck is going on?!” the king demanded. “Has this man been bespelled?”

“Not by me, Sire,” the Lady Ashford assured him—but this close, I saw her jaw tighten and her knuckles go white where she gripped her skirts.

Had she not expected Voski to speak up? Was this not a part of their plan?

“The fault is mine,” Voski drawled with an arrogant smile.

“You bespelled him?!”

“No, no. Only, he’s about to strangle to death—unless the Lady Grace refuses his binding vow.”

“Excuse me?”

“She is already claimed. She cannot be taken,” Voski said, enunciating every word. Then he finally let his dark gaze slide to mine, and his smile grew wicked. “She belongs to me. Her blood is already alight.”

The king’s mouth opened, but as the Lady Ashford hissed something uncomplimentary, Voski stepped forward and grasped my veil, pulling it up and over my head, to toss it back. ‘Be enthralled,’ he murmured in my head.

I blinked up at him, beaming with joy at having him so close—glad it was my role to pretend I was enchanted. I wasn’t faking.

But as my face was revealed and I leaned into my mate, the Lady Ashford spoke up, aghast. “Your Majesties, her blood is already alive. She is ignited.”

The Vow

~ GRACE ~

“Perhaps, dear Grace, you could free the poor man before he actually perishes?” Voski said in that smug drawl, nudging a knuckle under my chin as if I amused him.

“Oh, yes! Certainly!” I replied breathlessly. Pretending worried ignorance, I turned to Breckon, who was on all fours now, a splatter of red on the tiles between his hands, and his face beginning to turn purple. “I won’t vow to you. I am already taken!” I said brightly.

He just stared at me, his panicked eyes watering, and both hands clawing at his throat.

“No, no, dear. You must refuse his vow,” Lady Ashford said dryly.

“Oh! Well, then. Sorry, Breckon—I do not accept your vow.”

The man choked once more, then inhaled deeply, desperately, like he’d been drowning and suddenly broke the surface for air.

The sight of him—a blood vessel had burst in his eye, giving it a strange, red glow—turned my stomach, but I made myself keep smiling and turned back to Voski, staring up at him as if enraptured. “Did I do right?”

“Yes, yes, kitten,” he said with barely a glance. “Sire, you’ll forgive me for the late intrusion, but I found myself only recently apprised of the situation, and—”

“You!” Breckon’s rasp was hoarse, but emphatic. He struggled to his feet, panting and hoarse, wiping blood from his mouth, but no longer coughing. He pointed at Voski. “Sire, this is a plot! This man is a Fu—”

“Shut your mouth unless you wish to lie to your king.” Voski snapped his fingers and Breckon’s mouth closed so fast his teeth clicked, though his eyes flew wide in shock.