Page 42 of A Dance of Water

Her whole body shook, and the cool steel of the blade pressed to her neck dug harsher into her delicate, exposed throat.

"Relax, sweetheart," said so low from behind her, it was a wonder she had even heard it over the pounding of her heart. A gravelly voice—Graves.

She swallowed and felt something hot and wet dribble from the tiniest of cuts on her skin. The raven shifter hadcuther.

I want this to be over.

No answer.

Luella resisted the urge to sway; she felt faint, but the slightest of movements forced the blade to dig deeper into her throat.

The Prima—she could no longer call him by his name, for he was not the unhinged, sporadic male she once knew, but a lethal and coldly cunning mage—stood by their side. The Knight—no longer Graves—at her back, and the King at her front, keeping her hands held hostage… Their positioning was reminiscent of the fae marriage ceremonies.

"Do you accept to be the reigning King of Serpentis’s Chosen?" the Prima asked. She looked at him, catching his unforgiving, icy stare—she found no help there. The blade dug harder into her skin. "Failure to accept is death." The Prima stepped back and faced the crowd of revelers. "The choice is yours," he said, not looking at her.

Herchoice.

She could choose death. She could. Nothing was stopping her. If this was tradition—and what an ungodsly tradition it was—it would have to be upheld in front of so many eyes.

She could rest.

Finally.

Luella.

Her head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut.

No.

Not even the sound of Bastian’s voice in her mind could grant her peace now.

Luella, trust us. What did I ask of you? Trust.

You have proven you cannot be trusted,a softly whispered response.

She felt Graves’s steady breaths at her back, the King’s hands gripping hers fiercely.

Suddenly, she was taken somewhere else. The swirling stone paths cut into perfectly manicured grass, a stone block placed in the middle of the gardens like a stage for violence, hands against her cheek, promises whispered from lying lips… Reddened eyes and shaking hands. And Bastian telling her he would not let her die.You will live. I will make sure of it. Just as I will make sure that I have you.The vampire’s cruel words from the past echoed in her mind.

You see, Bastian whispered. The vision he had forced upon her flickered like a dying flame as she opened her eyes to the sights in front of her, staring deeply into the King’s green eyes.I have kept my promises to you. Let me show you I can keep this one.

The throne room was so silent she could hear the faintest fall of the snow as it cascaded down into the room from the shattered skylight above.

She did not reply to the vampire but somehow found herself giving the slightest of nods, the cool blade digging into her throat and warm blood sliding from the cut on her skin.

"Use your words," Graves urged from behind her.

As Luella searched the King’s eyes for any hint of a saving grace—finding none—she felt her lips move before her mind could catch up: "I agree."

Low and hushed cheers swept throughout the crowd.

The dagger was removed from her neck, and the Knight disappeared back into the shadows.

Leaving her to face the King alone.

Tharen took a few steps away, hands folded in front of him as hewatched her with predatory intent, and the King held out the extra fur cloak before him.

"Turn," the King ordered, and she did. A heavy, warm weight settled on her shoulders, and the fur cloak was placed upon her. A hot palm fell atop her nape, tugging her into his side as he forced her to stare out into the crowd.

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