Page 80 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

And if someone found out… If they knew he had taken her to his bed only to abandon her—

The thought made him ill.

Alina Acheron’s reputation would beruined.

He would not be the reason for it.

So he allowed his hands to fall away from her as if burnt and stepped back.

Confusion flared in her eyes, golden and molten, before something colder settled over her expression—anger. And betrayal.

She shoved past him, her shoulder slamming into his chest before she strode away, her arms wrapping around her body as though she were suddenly cold.

‘Princess, it’s not what you think.’

‘Is it not?’ She twisted around to spit the words at him. ‘You were mocking me from the beginning, pretending to want this. To want me.’ Her voice broke, tears appearing in the corner of those eyes he had been drawn to.

‘Of course I want you.’

Alina rolled her eyes.

‘Well, I do not wantyou, wyverian. Go find someone else to mock.’

‘Princess.’

‘Donotfollow me.Thatis a command.’

Kai’s jaw clenched.

He could go after her. Could do the very thing he had nearly done moments ago and take her face between his hands. Kiss her senseless.

Every fiber in his body screamed at him to do it. But he stood still, rooted to the stone beneath his feet, watching her disappear down the winding path of the mountain. Because he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not unless he knew, without a doubt, that he could ravage her without destroying her.

Not unless he knew ruin would not come for her because of it.

With a breath that did little to steady the storm inside him, Kai called for his wyvern, ignoring the way his blackened heart twisted, as if something inside it had just been torn apart.

Drakonians have this strange perception of perfection. They must never show anything except strength, beauty and flawlessness. It is utterly ridiculous. I’ve seen the way princess Aithne’s hands shake when she thinks no one can see. She is so scared of making the slightest mistake. It makes my heart hurt for her and what she must endure.

Tabitha Wysteria

Mal awoke on the morning of her wedding as if it were any other day. There was no great realisation, no rush of excitement, no fluttering anticipation. Only the quiet hum of servants bustling about her chambers, their movements a well-rehearsed routine. Some laid out breakfast, their delicate hands arranging platters with care, while others prepared the steaming bath, the scent of lavender and myrrh thick in the air. The rest tidied the room, ensuring that every surface gleamed, every corner remained untouched by dust, before the royal designers arrived to deliver her wedding gown. Mal had not yet seen the dress in its entirety. The fittings had been practical, uninspired—merely a slip of fabric, a skeletal outline of what was to come. She had not been asked for her opinion on the final design. Not that it mattered.

The aesthetic of the gown was of little concern. This wasnota wedding of love, nor of joy, nor of celebration. It was a union of necessity, a carefully arranged binding of two worlds. A cage, wrapped in silks and jewels. But there was one thing she had insisted upon.

The dress had to be black. As was tradition in her kingdom. Nothing else had mattered to her—not the embroidery, not the cut, not the weight of the fabric against her skin. Just black, the colour of the wyverian queens before her.

A knock, and then Haven swept into the room just as Mal slipped into the bath. The warm water lapped at her skin, but her sister’s presence was the first thing that settled her.

‘Where is Vera?’ Mal asked, voice sharp with irritation.

‘She has been taken ill, your highness,’ a servant replied.

Mal frowned but said nothing.

‘You ought not frown on your wedding day,’ Haven teased, plucking a rotten apple from the golden tray. Even now, despite the court’s slow adaptation to wyverian customs, Mal caught the way the servants glanced warily at the rotting fruit, their expressions betraying their unease. Haven, however, bit into the apple without a care. ‘Your skin will wrinkle and deform.’

Mal grunted as deft hands massaged oils into her scalp.

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