Page 8 of Rise of the Vicious Princess

“Reuben scares me,” Milla whispered after a moment of the two of them working in silence.

“It will be all right.” Charis infused the words with confidence and watched Milla’s shoulders slowly relax as they finished scrubbing the tub and then tossed the dirty water down the drain.

An hour later, Milla was asleep in the little room beside the bath chamber. Charis had refused to let Milla wash the sticky pomade out of her hair—more because she couldn’t stand the idea of getting into the tub than because she was too exhausted to allow her hair to be washed. Instead, Milla had plucked the jewels free, removed the mesh cage from her head, and helped her into her nightdress.

The vanity chair was a solid weight beneath Charis as she collapsed into it. With nothing left to do, the memory of Mother lying on the rug, pale and shaking, blazed to life in her mind and refused to leave. There had been so much blood. What if Mother hadn’t survived?

Her heart shuddered, an erratic beat that thundered in her ears as she struggled to breathe past the sudden tightness in her chest.

She was going to lose Father someday soon. It had never occurred to her that she might lose Mother, too.

King Alaric Penbyrn must be desperate to force Calera to accept his terms if he’d decided assassinating the queen was the only way to do it. And why send an unarmed assassin into the princess’s chambers? Or had the woman simply found a convenient place to hide from the guards without knowing whose chambers she was in? Perhaps she’d been the one to help the assassin sneak into the palace and then became trapped and couldn’t get out.

Charis’s vision swam, and she bent at the waist, hugging her arms around herself and forcing her breathing to slow.

Mother was going to be bedridden for days. Maybe weeks. That meant the entire weight of ruling Calera, running the war, and managing the nobility rested on Charis alone.

Slowly, she straightened, pressing cold fingers against the vanity as she climbed to her feet.

She’d been trained for this from birth.

Be smarter. Strike harder. Never falter, never waver, never break.

She left the lamp lit and crawled into bed. By tomorrow, she’d have a plan. A way to navigate the crisis with strength, composure, and the ruthless will to do whatever was required.

But tonight, she needed to curl up under her blankets, ears straining to hear any whisper of sound that might be a threat, and breathe past the noose of panic that was wrapped around her neck.

Four

A WHISPER OF sound drifted across the early morning air. Charis startled awake, heart pounding, blood roaring in her ears. Snatching the dagger she kept on the nightstand, she slid out of bed, her movements silent and smooth.

Another sound. Somewhere to the right. Hushed and secretive.

Charis’s fist tightened on the dagger, and she crept across the floor, muscles tense and ready. If another Montevallian spy had somehow managed to get into her rooms, she was going to make him wish he’d never set eyes on Calera’s princess.

And then she’d do the same to the guards who were supposed to be keeping her safe.

A quiet footfall brushed the floor inside Charis’s closet, and her eyes narrowed. The closet had been fully closed the night before. Now the door stood slightly ajar.

She didn’t dare turn her back on the closet to summon her guards. Rolling to the balls of her feet, she adjusted her grip on the dagger, kicked the closet door open, and yelled for her guards all at the same instant.

“Your Highness!” Milla squeaked, and stumbled back, clutching handfuls of sage and sweetgrass to her chest.

“Milla, for seers’ sakes, I could’ve killed you!”

The girl’s already pale complexion went pasty, and she made a strangled noise in the back of her throat, her wide eyes locked on the dagger the princess still held in her hand. Charis dropped her arm, hiding the dagger in the folds of her nightdress even as a pair of guards crashed through the door of her room, swords raised.

“Stand down!” Charis kept her eyes on Milla, who was shaking like a leaf caught in a windstorm. “All is well.”

“Your Highness?” Fada stepped forward, her wide shoulders still braced, her sword still raised.

“Weapons down,” Charis snapped. “It’s just Milla.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Luther sheathed his sword and nodded for Fada to do the same. He bowed. “Morning shift will be in soon to discuss your day’s schedule with you.” He stepped out of the room, Fada on his heels.

Charis blew out a long, slow breath and tried to get her heartbeat under control. No assassin. No threat. Just a terrified young handmaiden who looked close to fainting.

“You’re up early,” Charis said as calmly as she could manage.

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