Page 10 of Queen of the Wicked
I saw it in the way she preened as I called her my beautiful, wicked queen in the ruins of our home as I made love to her on my throne that she claimed for herself.
And yet still, I continue to deny it. Someone with Adelasia’s heart and will could not have so easily fallen to the insatiablethirst of power, as I did a thousand years ago. Rowan may be out of line in assuming he knows her better than I, but deep in my cursed chest, beneath the heart that only beats for her, I know that he’s right.
And it’s killing me.
I stop my pacing and quietly approach my bedchamber. The heavy double doors are cracked open just slightly, like closing them was an afterthought. Maybe she forgot to close them, or maybe it was a silent invitation from the part of her that’s still reaching for my heart after everything I’ve put her through.
I step inside, where the room is dimly lit by the moonlight that bleeds through the open terrace. The wind catches the thick curtains and tosses them gently, like the silken, careful arms of a dying dancer.
Adelasia lies tangled in the thin sheets, her brow furrowed, jaw clenched, limbs twitching.
I watch her for a moment, wondering what she’s dreaming about, but her twitching turns to thrashing. Her tiny, soft whimpers turn to cries.
I’ve only seen her like this one other time, when she accidentally grabbed Yekaterina’s Bloodstone hanging from my neck and saw me holding my mother and screamed until her throat bled.
Adelasia’s back arches off the bed in an awkward, contorted way. Her sharp fingernails rip through the sheets like claws. A sheen of sweat blossoms on her skin and she whimpers.
I take a step forward, and her small voice whispers into the night.
“No…no…get out!”
Her voice is raw and hoarse with her cries as I step closer, quietly saying her name. “Adelasia,” I whisper. But the closer my steps get to her, the worse her cries become. Her breathing grows more uneven as she sweats deeper into the sheets. The shadows around her pulse unnaturally and the black rot on her fingertips crawls up the veins in her hands.
“Adelasia,” I say again, this time reaching for her hand, which she recoils from in her sleep.
It’s me. My presence. It’s causing her this distress. Where once she sought my comfort in her sleep, she now cowers away from it. She used to say my name like a gentle prayer or a healing spell.
Now? Her entire body writhes like my nearness is a poison. My chest aches as another sound escapes her throat, like an animal caught in a trap. It echoes through the palace like the sharp nails of a Griefclaw scratching against the marble floors.
The door bursts open, and Rowan stands in a brilliant sheen of silver light. His chest is bare, like he was drawn out of his own slumber by her distress. His wings reach across the room, blocking the deepest shadows from laying eyes on her. He looks to me for some explanation, but I simply turn my head back to Adelasia and kneel next to her on the bed. My arms pull her upright and wrap her close to my chest. Her nails dig into my arm, drawing soft streams of blood as she drags them down my tough skin.
In her sleep, her hands twitch like she’s trying to push me away, like she doesn’t know who I am—or worse, that she’s afraid of me. The air in the room warps further, and Rowan approaches the bed with haste. He grabs Adelasia’s free hand and simply holds her with me.
“I’m here,” I say, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “You’re safe. It’s a dream.”
But the truth is, she’s not safe, and whatever she’s dreaming of, it could absolutely be a reality for her now. This magic in her has dragged her so far away that I can’t reach and into something I can’t love her out of.
I hear a small snap and Rowan makes a face of pain. Adelasia’s grip has broken a bone in his hand. Her body convulses violently one last time, and she inhales a hard, heavy breath.
If this is what’s become of her dreams, I dread the day the nightmares seep into her reality.
Eight
Adelasia
I know this place. I hate this place.
Deep in the Blackwood lies the Well of Eternity. It’s the birthplace of magic and meant to be a reverent, silent place for worshippers of the Dark Goddess.
Instead, it’s chaotic. Thunder booms overhead. Wind sends naked trees scraping against each other like claws. Shadows stir at the edge of the water, twisting into the shapes of nightmares.
Standing opposite from me like a rotted reflection of a monster I’m slowly becoming, Yekaterina stands. Spine straight, hands boney, one eye a deep, malicious red and the other a hollow crevice where I pulled it from her skull.
Her broken headdress glistens with wet blood, and her mouth is stretched into a strong scowl of displeasure.
I let out a shaky breath. “You’re not real,” I say to her. “None of this is.”
Her frown twists into a smile. “Reality is whatever we choose to make it.”
