Page 31 of The Orc's Princess Bride
Something else Jessamin had said and he’d refused to believe.
“I understand that now,” he said, “but what brings you here with such urgency?”
“We believe he plans to use her in a blood ritual,” the priest said grimly. “He will do everything he can to get his hands on her.”
Murmurs of shock rippled through the throne room, and his hands clenched on the arms of his throne, his claws digging into the ancient stone.
A blood ritual. Was that how Lasseran planned to control them? With his wife’s blood?
“The Priest King begs you to guard his daughter with your life,” the priest finished. “He believes that together, you may be the only hope of breaking Lasseran’s power.”
He rose from his throne, his movements deliberate, controlled, though inside he was a storm of emotion. A tidal wave of guilt and burning, protective love consumed him. He had been a blind fool, and his foolishness had wounded her almost as much as Lasseran could have.
“Where is my queen?” he demanded, turning to his captain of the guard.
“In her chambers, my king. I stationed guards outside her door as you ordered.”
Ordered. He had ordered her confined like a criminal. His Beast howled with self-loathing.
“Dismissed,” he growled, the word cutting through the room like a blade. “All of you. Now.”
The court scattered, recognizing the dangerous edge in his voice. Only when the last of them had fled did he allow his shoulders to slump, the weight of his failure crushing down on him.
The priest remained, his face still grim.
“There is something else you need to know,” he said quietly. “We believe that Lasseran intends to father a child with her.”
Never.His Beast threatened to emerge as he gave the other male a horrified look.
“On his own sister’s child?”
“He has no heir and believes only his line is worthy.” The priest’s face twisted in disgust. “There is no depravity to which he will not sink.”
“He will never lay a finger on her,” he swore, then remembered her face as she fled the great hall. “If she will accept my protection.”
The priest watched him with knowing eyes. “Your Majesty?—”
“I accused her,” he said, his voice hollow. “I believed the lies. I made her worst fears come true.”
“Then go to her,” the priest said simply. “The greatest strength is not in never failing, but in rising after failure.”
He nodded once, sharply, and strode out of the hall. He didn’t know what he would say to her. How could words possibly heal what he had broken? But he knew he had to try. He would beg for her forgiveness on his knees if necessary.
The corridors seemed endless. Each step was a reminder of his failure, each breath a prayer that she would listen. Guards snapped to attention as he passed, but he barely saw them. His entire being was focused on reaching her, on finding the words to undo the damage he had caused.
He reached her door and dismissed the guards with a sharp gesture. They departed swiftly, leaving him alone in the corridor. For the first time in his adult life, he hesitated before a door. The king who faced down armies found himself afraid of the judgment in one woman’s eyes.
He raised his hand to knock, then lowered it. What right did he have to demand entry? What right did he have to ask for forgiveness?
But staying away would be another failure, another betrayal. Drawing a deep breath, he knocked.
Silence.
He knocked again, harder. “Jessamin.”
Still no answer. Fear, cold and sharp, sliced through him. Had she fled? Had she been taken? Or was she simply refusing to see him?
“Jessamin, please,” he called, his voice rougher than he intended. “I need to speak with you.”
