Warriors of Wind and Ash (Merciless Dragons #2)

My breath stops for a second. As if he choked me, without touching me.

“You know it, deep down. That your mother was as much a villain as you believe I am. That you carry the same seeds of darkness inside that soft, sweet body, because you watched her shove your people off the cliff of war into the maw of death, and you never tried to stop her.”

“I didn’t think I could,” I falter. “I was afraid.”

“No.” His tone is suddenly thick, brusque, threatening. The burly warrior, instead of the thoughtful monarch. It’s as if his personality is split in two, and he’s switching back and forth depending on the effect he wants to elicit from me.

“No, it was more than fear,” he growls. “You liked standing aside, surveying the carnage from the comfort of your daily routine. Aloof, in denial of your own responsibilities. Perhaps you even enjoyed watching your mother race to her own destruction and drag everyone else with her. Perhaps it was a kind of vengeance for you. Vengeance against her, against a role you didn’t want and a title you despised.”

“I didn’t despise my role.” I don’t know if I’m trying to convince him or myself.

He stands abruptly, bends his great bulk over me, seizes my chin in his calloused hand. “Don’t lie to me, Spider. You never wanted this, did you? Royal children who want the crown are always sure they could run the country better than their elders. They crave the throne, scheme for it, strive for influence. From what I’ve heard, you did none of that.”

I’m shaking, clutching the blanket to my chest, my mind swirling with horrible uncertainty. “She wouldn’t have let me do anything. She never—”

“Stop it!” he bellows, spit flying from his mouth and misting my face. “Stop fucking lying to yourself! Stop shifting the blame to your bitch-queen of a mother! You could have stopped her and surrendered to me. You should have stuck a knife in her heart to save hundreds, even thousands. You didn’t. You’re to blame for their deaths.”

“But you—you attacked us,” I choke out through a shuddering sob. “You crave conquest and power.”

“Yes.” His hand squeezes my face tighter. “Those are my motives. We’re talking about yours. Your failure. The deaths on your conscience, the blood on your soul, the punishment you deserve.”

He’s right.

About all of it.

And I shatter.

It’s a silent fracture, a soundless explosion of my heart into bloodied shards.

“I did not save my people,” I whisper.

“It was your duty to save them. Your birthright.” He’s leaning close, his lips nearly brushing my cheek, his voice sinuous and dark. “You failed. Worse—you chose to fail, to do nothing. You condemned them. You would not let yourself see your true nature, or feel the guilt, but now you feel it. Now you do. No more shifting the blame. No more shutting your eyes to your own wickedness, your unworthiness. You see it now. You understand why I’m doing this to you, why you’re suffering. Not only because I want to keep the people subservient, but also to bring justice upon you for your sins. A good king never has just one reason for anything he does. And thus my purpose for you is threefold. You are the whipping girl, the defeated princess, and—” he places his hand across my lower belly— “the womb for my firstborn.”

I suck in my stomach, away from the heat of his hand, but he presses more firmly. The hand still clutching my face tenses for a second, and his eyes dart to my mouth.

I am limp and wretched inside, hollowed out and sore. And yet if he tried to kiss me, I think I could summon the strength to resist.

Maybe he knows that, and he doesn’t want to give me a reason to rally, to fight back. He removes his hands from my face and body, withdraws, and leaves the room, closing the door. Leaves me empty and crushed under the weight of everything I failed to do.

I’ve grappled with this guilt before. I’ve had similar thoughts to the accusations he voiced just now, and I thought I had laid them to rest but perhaps I merely buried them, too afraid of their ponderous weight oppressing my soul.

I am worthless. I am foolish. I am alone. I have no value, and no one wants me.

I did not save my people, nor can I save myself…

Save myself…

If I am what the King says—if all those deaths lie at my door, I can either succumb and perish inside, existing as an empty shell until I crumble with age—or I can try to atone for my sins. And before I can help anyone in Elekstan, I must first free myself from the King of Vohrain.

He warned me that poison flows through my veins, that if I venture too far from him I will die. I should test the truth of that warning. If he lied about it, then maybe he was also lying about the poisoned prey and the death of the dragons.

If he lied, perhaps there is hope. And right now, I am in desperate need of hope.

I stare at the half-open door. This bedroom is one of the palace’s guest suites, meant for an ambassador or a visiting dignitary. Some of these chambers have secret exits through which people could escape during an attack, or listening stations where my mother’s spies could observe the occupants without their knowledge.

The maids know every bit of the palace, including its secret passages. And because I’ve worked closely with the palace staff, I know the location of each hidden door and secret panel. Including the concealed exit from this room.

Cautiously I slide off the bed and knot the blanket over one shoulder, so it will stay mostly in place while leaving my hands free. I’ll be damned if I run away naked. I’ll steal clothes as soon as I get the chance.