Page 257 of The Nightmare Bride
My heartbeat crested in my throat, forceful enough to bruise, and I opened my eyes, intending to tell him to sign the thing and come to bed already, sweat and grime be damned.
But he’d closed the bathroom door. Seams of candlelight glowed around the frame. Metal squeaked within, followed by the muted thunder of water falling into the tub.
I lay there, contemplating, for much, much longer than I should have.
But I was being stupid. Surrendering to him wouldn’t come for free. Of course it wouldn’t.
In the end, I closed my eyes and tried to sleep again—the only course of action that wouldn’t bring consequences with it.
27.
Someone murmured my name.
I cracked my eyes, expecting daylight, but shadows still swathed the bedroom. I rolled over and checked the bedside clock, which I could just make out in the sallow marshglow from the window.
Two in the morning.
I rubbed at sleep-heavy eyes, wondering what had woken me. Then a husky laugh warmed the quiet. I frowned, wondering what Ky could possibly find amusing at this hour, especially because he was clearly fast asleep, his head thrown to the side.
“Lioness,” he said. “Gods, yes.”
At that, my heart stilled, deliberating its next beat. Wait, was he...?
He made a sound—half chuckle, half moan, entirely sexual.
I sat up and shoved the coverlet aside. Oh, no. No, no, no. Him sleep-talking my name had been torture enough, butthis? Outright warfare. No way could I lay here while he dreamed his own pleasure, not if it wasmyface he saw in his mind.
“Ky,” I hissed.
He didn’t respond, too busy smiling at whatever sordid thing dream-me was doing to him. “Mmm.”
In desperation, I heaved astride him and clamped my hands around his shoulders. “Ky. Wakeup.”
“For the love of Aerelis,” he said. “Yes, like that.”
That stopped me.Aerelis. What the hell? Wasn’t Aerelis the patron goddess of...
My mind spun, combing through the lessons I’d absorbed from Amryssa’s books. Aerelis. The patron goddess of...Windfell?
Yes, that was right, but Windfell was nothing. A territory even more insignificant than Oceansgate, a microscopic eastern peninsula populated by howling gales, barren cliffs, and a few unfortunate sheep.
Why would Ky invoke the patron goddess of Windfell?
“Fucking hell, lioness,” he crooned.
My thoughts slowed, his words digging into me like barbs. There was something different about the way he was talking. Something wrong.
Then it hit me. His accent. This wasn’t the rarefied lilt of Hightower, but something unfamiliar. No doubt one of the myriad dialects he had in his lexicon, but why would he dream in a different accent than the one he’d been born to?
Unless... Unless...
My blood slowed to an ice-water trickle. Oh. Oh, no. Oh, goddess. Oh, seven fucking hells.
The puzzle pieces finally came together like a hand had reached down from the sky and arranged them for me. I thought of Vick and Lunk—not royal attendants, but criminals. Brigands who, according to that Wanted poster, staged highway robberies along the Oceansgate road.
And the way Vick treated Ky as a resented superior, rather than a prince. Because who was Ky, really?
An actor. An impersonator. He’d said as much himself. He’d taunted me with the truth, only I hadn’t reached out and taken hold of the very thing he’d dangled in my face.
