Page 27 of Crown of Light and Ashes
Kaan. My husband. My enemy.
His breathing is deep and even, his face peaceful in sleep, an obscene contrast to the monster who tore Aslan apart with shadows, who forced himself on me last night. I ease away from his touch, careful not to wake him. My body protests with every movement, muscles aching in places I didn't know could ache. The memory of his hands on me, the shadows constricting my throat, the unwanted pleasure that came with the pain floods my mind.
I slide from the massive bed, my bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. The chambers are lavishly decadent, all black marble and silveraccents, shadows dancing in corners even the morning light can't reach. I find my reflection in a polished mirror across the room and barely recognize myself. My neck is mottled with bruises, evidence of his possession. My eyes look haunted, older somehow.
What disturbs me most is not the physical evidence of last night, but the lingering echo of something I refuse to name, a twisted, traitorous part of me that wasn't entirely repulsed by what happened. The thought makes bile rise in my throat.
I glance back at Kaan, still asleep. He's undeniably handsome when his face is relaxed like this, all sharp angles softened in slumber. Long black eyelashes rest against his cheeks, his dark hair falling across his forehead. The shadows that normally writhe around him are quiet now, almost gentle. He reminds me of Karanlik, the dark god from my mother's bedtime stories, beautiful and terrible in equal measure.
The thought of my mother sends a fierce surge of anger through me. This man had a hand in her death, stood by while shadow magic extinguished her light. The rage builds so quickly, I fear it might choke me.
Kaan stirs slightly, his brow furrowing as if sensing the shift in my emotions. I quickly turn away, moving toward the bathroom. The blood bond—I need to be more careful. The closer we are physically, the stronger the connection seems to be. Even in sleep, he can feel the intensity of my hatred when it burns this bright.
I slip quietly from the bedchamber into the adjoining bathroom, needing distance from him, needing to gather myself. The bathing room is enormous, all black marble and silver fixtures gleaming in the dim light. A porcelain basin sits on a table near the window. I pour water from a silver pitcher and scrub myself vigorously, as if I could wash away the memory of his touch along with the physical traces. The water turns pink from reopened scratches, some his doing, some my own nails against my skin as I try to cleanse myself of him.
I'm so focused on my task that I lose track of time. When I finally return to the bedchamber, the soft clearing of a throat startles me, and I grab for a weapon that isn't there.
Three women stand in the doorway, servants, their eyes carefully averted. The oldest steps forward, a bundle of clothing in her arms. The bed behind them is empty, Kaan nowhere to be seen.
"My lady," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. "We've come to help you prepare for the day."
I wrap the linen towel tighter around myself, hating the vulnerability of my nakedness. "I don't need help."
The woman, perhaps in her fifties, with iron-gray hair and eyes that have seen too much—bows slightly. "Lord Kaan has instructed that you are to be attended at all times."
Of course, he has. Another way to control me, to deny me even momentary solitude.
"Where is he?" I ask, nodding toward the empty bed.
"Lord Kaan left while you were bathing, my lady. He mentioned court matters that required his immediate attention."
I should feel relief at his absence, but instead, a strange unease settles in my chest. The memory of his words last night returns—the blood bond that now connects us, allowing him to sense my emotions, my location when my feelings run strong enough. Is he watching me even now, through that magical tether?
"The basin is too small," the older servant says, gesturing to the door on the far side of the room. "There's a proper bath through there. We can help you wash."
I consider refusing, but the prospect of hot water is too tempting. I follow her through the door into a bathing chamber that rivals anything in the Light Court palace. A sunken tub of black marble dominates the space, already filled with steaming water. The scent of unfamiliar herbs rises with the steam.
The servants move with practiced efficiency, helping me into the bath. None of them offer me tea; another stab of betrayal echoes in my chest, my father never really placed someone here for me.
Instead of thinking of my father, I focus on their hands, that are gentle as they wash my hair, as they scrub my skin with soft cloths and fragrant soap. Not once do they comment on the bruises that mark my body, or the scratches from Kaan's shadows. They've seen such things before, I realize. This is not new to them.
The thought makes me scrub harder, until my skin is red and raw. It still doesn't feel clean enough.
"You're hurting yourself, my lady," the oldest servant says softly, gently taking the cloth from my hand.
"What's your name?" I ask, needing something to focus on besides memories of last night.
"Lira, my lady. I served Lady Morvaine before you."
"Kaan's grandmother." The woman whose wedding dress I wore yesterday.
Lira nods. "The last true Shadow Lady. There's been no proper mistress of the household since her passing."
"I am not your mistress," I say coldly. "I am a prisoner."
Lira's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in her eyes—pity, perhaps. Or understanding. "Nevertheless, you are the Shadow Lady now. The household awaits your instructions."
The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh. I'm expected to manage a household in the heart of enemy territory, to play the role of dutiful wife to the man who murdered my lover.
