Page 10 of The Nightmare Bride
Hot tears invaded my throat. This couldn’t be happening. Kyven was dust. Amryssa was free. Just minutes ago, our future had looked so...tolerable.But now?
Bleak. Dark. Horrible.
Olivian roused from his stupor. Apparently, my confession had passed him by, because he stood without so much as glancing my way.
“Welcome to Oceansgate, Your Highness. I’m the Seneschal Olivian Marche. Allow me to introduce my daughter, Amryssa”—he waved a sausage-fingered hand in our direction—“and her keymistress, Harlowe.”
Kyven took our measure, his attention so keen my heart kicked against my ribs. “Keymistress?” he said. “Dare I ask what that is? I can’t say I’ve heard the term in Hightower.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. Consider it something like...an attendant, nothing more.” Olivian sniffed, conveying his opinion of me with ruthless clarity. “It’s Harlowe’s job to look after Amryssa, primarily when we have incidents such as last night’s. Which hopefully didn’t tax you or your companions too greatly. At any rate, you can become acquainted with your bride over breakfast. I have some business to attend to, so I can’t stay, but make yourselves comfortable. Eat as much as you like.”
My jaw slackened. Where had Olivian unearthedthatpretty speech? His pretentions might even have convinced me, if not for the way he kept glancing at the torchier as if it might spring to life and bite him.
“Very well, then.” The prince stepped aside, allowing the seneschal to make his escape.
The doors banged shut. In the ensuing silence, Kyven’s attention strayed to me, then the furrows I’d clawed into my flesh. “So.You’rethe one who advised me to die screaming last night. I hope you won’t hold my continued existence against me. You might actually find me charming, if given half a chance.”
My throat worked, but no sound came out. What was happening? How was he even standing here, alive and breathing and lauding his own virtues, no less? And how did he look so infuriatingly...healthy, his cheeks flush with color, his clothesas fresh as if he hadn’t spent a night thrashing in physical and psychological agony? How could he possibly seem sounconcerned?
Something tugged at my hand. I broke from the prince’s gaze to find wan fingers clutching mine.
“I’m not hungry.” Amryssa spoke so faintly I had to strain to catch the words. “I think I’d rather go, if that’s all right with you.”
“Oh, don’t leave on my account.” The prince smirked, then sauntered to the sideboard and heaped food onto his plate as if this were just another morning. As if we had plenty to spare. His attendants followed suit, clearly more interested in the spread than us. “If you’ll forgive my saying so, you both look a bit...piqued, and I’m a staunch believer in the power of bacon to cure all ills.”
I curled a fist against the table and tried to tame the sting crowding my eyes. I needed strength. I needed to fix this.
I needed to kill this man.
Kyven claimed a seat at the table—theheadof the table, the pompous ass—and slid Olivian’s untouched plate aside. He attacked his spoils with the vigor of a teenage boy, though he had to have been pushing thirty.
“Mmmfffph.” He groaned through a mouthful of eggs in an incredibly unprincely manner. “Heavenly.”
I grimaced. His companions set upon their plates with equal enthusiasm, proving the giant did, indeed, have difficulty chewing. Flecks of biscuit showered the man’s jerkin, which he made up for with the sheer volume of food he shoveled into his mouth.
Selfish jerks, the lot of them. Where did they think this all came from?
“Please,” Amryssa whimpered. “I just...need a moment.”
Kyven met my eyes. “Is our presence distressing her?” He nodded toward Amryssa, his smile softening into the sort one might direct at a child.
That show of tenderness wakened a billowing rage inside me. Did he think I was an idiot? I hadn’t forgotten the icy glint of his eyes or the tortured warp of his claws, and now I recognized every word as fabricated, designed to project a humanity he didn’t possess.
Amryssa’s old tutor, Eliana, had warned me of this. She’d sent a letter weeks ago, telling me how Kyven mimicked a real person—he spoke the right words, followed the proper etiquette. Then he unleashed his malevolence in darkened rooms and dusty attics, where no one would hear the screaming.
“What was your name again?” Kyven asked Amryssa. “Harlowe, was it?”
Every cell in my body shrieked at me to shield my friend, to stop him from sullying her with a glance, but his question riveted me in place.
He’d just called her bymyname. Which meant he thought I was...
Amryssa?
My mind spun, but the mystery unraveled in moments. Of course—he’d walked in, noted my proximity to Olivian and our similar complexions, and assumedIwas the seneschal’s daughter. Not to mention Amryssa had been serving food ontomyplate.
I held my breath, weighing the ways in which I could use this. The passing joke I’d shared with Amryssa last night—that tender jest about marrying the prince myself—became as functional and pointed as a blade in my hand.
Gods help me, I could do it. Actually do it. Rather than trussing up my friend like a lamb for the slaughter, I could giveKyven a bride who would go to the marriage bed with a dagger on her belt and hate in her heart.
