Page 22 of Queen of the Wicked
The argument with Kaius is waiting for me like a storm behind a locked door. I follow him into it anyway.
He’s in the observatory, hands behind his back, staring out over the cliffs like the forest might give him answers for once. His presence used to still me. It used to center me.
Now it makes my heart ache.
“She needs to train. To learn how to wield that poison inside her,” I say flatly.
He doesn’t turn. “And you think you’re the right one to teach her?”
“I know I am.”
Now he turns. Slowly. His eyes are that simmering crimson again. Controlled rage. That’s always been his way. He doesn’t lash out. He lets it rot him from the inside.
That hits him. I see it. His jaw clenches.
I continue. “She needs to learn control. Or it will consume her. And if you keep treating her like a fragile thing, you’ll lose her.”
He scoffs. “And I suppose you think she’ll survive the Blackwood with your guidance alone?”
“I think she has a better chance with both of us.” I pause and give him a sarcastic scoff. “But that would require you to pull your head out of your own martyrdom for once.” I flip the table between us in a sudden rage. “Do what you want, Voroninov, but I am helping her. Perhaps you should consider what you’ll lose if you don’t.”
Nineteen
Adelasia
“You’re holding it too tightly,” Rowan says from behind me.
I let out a frustrated groan. “Easy for you to say, bird boy. You let your magic slip and every woman within a mile gets on her knees. I let it slip, and I’ll burn this courtyard to the ground.”
“So burn it,” he says. “Trust me, I understand the fear, but clenching onto it won’t subdue it, it will only wear you out and make it easier to break you.”
He steps closer, boots soft on the moss-covered stones. I feel the shift in the air before I feel him. His magic is different than mine. Warmer. Older. Tempting in the way floating is—like if I surrender to the current, he might keep me afloat.
“Breathe,” he says.
I do.Inhale. Exhale.The magic shivers.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low behind me. “Now again.”
Another breath. Another pulse.
It sings inside me, beautiful and wicked. I’m not sure which of us it’s responding to anymore. Me, or him.
“Good girl,” he whispers. “Now direct it outward,slowly, instead of keeping it coiled inside.”
I exhale, and a black tendril of magic lashes out and shatters the stone bench across the courtyard. I rub my face in my palms, exasperated. I was supposed to move the bench, not break it.
I look at Rowan, expecting to find him horrified or frustrated with me too. His expression is unreadable at first. Then, softly, he smiles.
“Try again,” he says. “You can do it.”
We train for hours. I lose track of time the way I always did when I danced—surrendering to the rhythm of movement and breath.
It’s not that I trust Rowan fully. But I trust this. The clarity he offers. I’ve never been able to use this magic around Kaius. I’m too afraid it’ll hurt him. That it’ll hurtus.
But Rowan doesn’t flinch. He never has.
Not when the rot darkens up my wrist. Not when I cry out in frustration and scorch the weeds growing in the courtyard. Not when I collapse to my knees, ready to give up, and whisper that I’m afraid of what I’ve become.
