Page 84 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

‘Now you must seal the marriage through the kiss of flames,’ the priest announced.

Mal’s eyes widened, worried.

‘It’s just a kiss,’ the priest whispered, noticing Mal’s fearful look. ‘No flames are actually involved.’

Mal’s heart stopped.

A kiss.

Her breathing turned erratic—the corset tightening, crushing her ribs. The heat in the temple swelled.

Ash’s hand found hers. And somehow—her world steadied.

‘Ash-’

He kissed her and the world ignited. Her skin burnt, her breath hitched, her mind drowned in fire. When he pulled away, Mal could barely think.

‘I can’t breathe,’ she said.

Ash chuckled.

Mal’s vision blurred.

‘No, really. I can’t breathe.’

And then Mal fainted.

Drakonians are very proud. I met princess Aithne recently as I travelled with the Council to the Kingdom of Fire. It was a series of awkward meetings because the drakonians only wished to talk to the warlocks on the Council. It is infuriating how vile they treat their drakonian women. Princess Aithne was a sweetheart but she would do absolutely anything her father asks. It frightens me how much she is willing to sacrifice for the crown. I have heard rumours that she is trying to convince her father to propose a marriage oath between her and prince Sorin from the Kingdom of Light. Everyone expects it, of course. Both kingdoms have been marrying each other for centuries when the alliance is needed or they want something. Somehow I do not think her father is interested in marrying his only daughter off to the phoenixian prince. It wouldn’t make sense. He does not need anything from them right now.

Tabitha Wysteria

Mal awoke in the familiar embrace of her own bed, her mind clouded with confusion, her breath still unsteady. The remnants of her ordeal lay beside her—a corset, violently split apart, its delicate seams torn asunder by the blade of a dagger. Memory rushed back like a tide: Ash, his movements precise and swift, drawing the hidden weapon from his boot and slicing through the suffocating fabric, granting her lungs the freedom they so desperately craved. He had carried her—through the dark,through the fire—cradled in his arms, back to the castle and into the safety of her chambers.

And now, he was here.

The drakonian prince sat in one of her chairs, poised like a predator at rest, his head tilted slightly as he watched her stir. His golden eyes flickered in the dim light, unreadable, assessing.

‘Were you watching me while I slept?’

‘Unconscious.’

‘Were you watching me while I was unconscious?’

He nodded, unbothered by the accusation. Mal swallowed against the peculiar warmth rising in her chest, choosing to ignore the strange mixture of embarrassment and reluctant delight curling inside her. Instead, she gestured towards the discarded corset. ‘Thank you, for cutting it off.’

Another nod.

‘Do all drakonian women wear such tight devil-makers?’ she asked, her voice laced with amusement.

Again, he nodded.

Mal cast her gaze downward, only now realising her change in attire. The opulent red wedding gown was gone, replaced by nothing but the thin silk slip that had lain beneath it. A fresh surge of heat—not from the sweltering kingdom, but from something far more personal—rose in her cheeks.

‘Who undressed me?’

‘Maids.’ His voice was flat, but his expression was not. There was a sharp edge to his golden stare, a silent rebuke against whatever insinuation he thought she might be making. He lifted his hand in a vague gesture towards a gown draped across the curtain that divided the chamber from the bathing area.

Mal’s lips curled in dismay.

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