Chapter 3
His voice shouldn’t startle you. At this point, not much could, but there is something about his greeting—so informal, the tone so light—that sets you even further on edge. To your credit, you manage to hide it. No jump, not so much as a flinch as you turn around and set your eyes on the man.
Where is the blue skin? The red eyes and sharp tongue? You had expected more monster than what you see before you; to tell the truth, he is quite ordinary-looking. Handsome, even (though you bite your tongue, almost ashamed, at the thought). His skin isn’t blue, but pale; his eyes, light green. His features are high, almost regal-looking, with his slim nose and strong brow framed by dark locks falling down to his chin. His tongue is hidden in his mouth for now, but you assume that if you were to catch a glimpse, it wouldn’t be the forked monstrosity of your nightmares.
He is still dangerous, though, the most dangerous being you’ve ever met, and this is how you know: when he takes a step towards you, and then another, you do not cower away in fear. Instead, you find yourself leaning forward ever so slightly, as though preparing yourself for his touch. Some small, unclouded part of your mind recognizes that this must be the magic you have heard of. This is his true power. A charisma so strong that the people of your planet would bow down before him, even as they muttered words of treachery beneath their breath.
He stops just in front of your seat on the bed, then takes a place next to you. You are paralyzed—by fear or by magic, you aren’t quite sure—as he reaches out a hand and cradles your cheek in his palm. “They didn’t tell me you were a mute.”
Your mouth drops open slightly at that. You gape at his face—his handsome, murderous face—for a few moments before stammering out, “I’m not. Your Majesty.”
Those last words sting your tongue. This man, monster, whatever he is—he killed your best friend, and still you dare honor him with unearned titles.
“I suppose not. Quiet, then.”
His hand falls from your cheek to your own hand, covering it where it lies on the richly embroidered sheets.
You stare at him with wide, frightened eyes, unsure of what to do—besides the terrifyingly obvious. He is, after all, your husband; this bed is, for all intents and purposes, your wedding bed. But he must know of the rumors. He must know your fears. Surely he doesn’t expect you to—
“A penny for your thoughts?”
You blink, refocusing on his face before you. He looks amused. “Sorry?”
“Isn’t that something you mortals like to say?” He picks up your hand off the bed; you let him, too scared to do much of anything. He turns it over in his, tracing the lines along your palm. You wonder if he can read anything there, if his powers extend past the ability to charm and deceive. “You are very quiet. I’d have thought you’d be crying, at this point.”
“Crying?”
“Begging. Most of the women do.” He sounds so bored at this, even as he acknowledges the suffering of those who came before you. “‘Please don’t kill me,’ ‘I’ll do anything,’ etcetera, etcetera.”
“I...I honestly don’t know what to say to that.”
“You needn’t say anything, if you wish. I was merely curious as to what you were thinking.”
“I…” Why should I share anything with him? And yet...if this is to be your last night alive, you’re loathe to leave anything unsaid, no matter how reckless. “I was wondering if you were going to force me.”
A wrinkle appears between his brows. “Force you to what?” He follows your gaze where it flickers down to the bed, and his expression changes to one of horror. He releases your hand immediately.
That breaks through the fear, and you find yourself holding back a snort. He’s really that surprised? When he knows I know I’m about to die tomorrow.
But even if you had the guts to bring up this point—which, to be clear, you don’t—you don’t have a chance. Suddenly he’s standing, and you’d flinch if it weren’t for the fact that he’s slowly backing away from you.
“I’ll leave you for the night. Sleep well.”
Too late, you realize: he’s leaving. He’s leaving, and you’re supposed to die tomorrow, and all of this—Shari’s death, the deaths of every single girl before her, before you—it will all have been for nothing.
“Wait.”
Your voice rings out, unshaking and stronger than you feel, and he turns. You rise from the bed, feeling the full weight of the heavy fabrics as they drape across your shoulders and pool around your feet, and cross the length of the floor to crush your lips against his.