Page 126 of The Ashes and the Star-Cursed King

As much as I hated to admit it to myself, he had.

“This place has taken everything from you, Oraya. Even things it had no business asking for, when you were far too young to give them. You’re young. You’re beautiful. You’re powerful. You could do whatever you want. You could build whatever life you dreamed of.” I forced my gaze up from the table to meet his. “You deserve to be happy.”

Happy.

The thought was laughable. I didn’t even know what happiness meant.

“What if you let me go and I just turn around and wage my own war on you?”

He laughed. “A valid possibility.”

More than valid. It would be the only course of action expected of me by those that followed me.

“It’s stupid of you to let me go.”

“Some people have been saying it was stupid of me to keep you alive at all. I guess I’m a stupid man.”

I stared at him, brow furrowed, jaw set, picking apart his casually pleasant expression as if I could make sense of this by peeling back every layer of his skin.

“I don’t understand,” I said, finally.

It was the only thing I could think to say, and it was embarrassingly true.

“Think on it. See where that vicious imagination of yours takes you.” He leaned closer—and I couldn’t be sure, but maybe I imagined the slight sadness in his eyes, hidden beneath the crinkles of his amused smile. “Freedom, Oraya. You should’ve had it your whole life, but better late than never.”

34

ORAYA

Freedom.

Raihn’s words echoed in my head long after our meeting and into the days beyond. They lingered behind my every thought as I went through the motions of my routine—training, pacing, eating, reading. Raihn stayed out of my way for those next weeks, probably because he—like just about everyone else—was preoccupied pulling this ridiculous wedding together. The Nightborn castle was abuzz with chaotic energy, dozens of servants running around to sweep away the remaining evidence of the coup’s disorganized mess and replace it with grand symbols of Rishan power—fit for a bloodthirsty, powerful king of one of the most bloodthirsty, powerful empires in the world.

The day before the wedding, I wandered the deserted halls of the castle on my own. It was eerily quiet, after the near-constant flurry of activity these last two weeks. On the eve of the wedding, the work had been done. Everyone was holed up.

I relished the quiet of these hours.

I wandered into various libraries, sitting rooms, meeting rooms, studies. Places I had never been allowed when this place was really my home. All were empty—until I rounded a corner into one of the libraries, dimly lit with the faintest dregs of sunlight beneath the velvet curtains, and stopped short.

I immediately backed away, but a smooth voice said, “You don’t have to leave.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The scent of cigarillo smoke pooled in a room this small. Vincent would’ve been appalled to have it staining the pages of these books.

Septimus gave me a pleasant smile. The fire was lit, backlighting his silhouette, making his platinum hair seem downright golden.

“Not at all.” He gestured to the other chair. “We haven’t gotten to catch up in a while. Join me.”

I didn’t move, and he chuckled.

“I don’t bite, dove. I promise.”

It wasn’t exactly Septimus’s bite that I was afraid of. Actually, the days when teeth were my biggest worry now seemed a little quaint.

His clothes were disheveled, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of darkness at his chest. His eyes seemed more golden than usual, more threads of amber in the silver, though perhaps that was just the reflection of the fire and the darkness that bracketed them.

“You look tired,” I said.

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