Page 35 of The Beast King's Bride

“No, Ash. As you said, we common Fae cannot lie, at least not when asked a question outright, though I must mention that the ingredients I named are only for the flavoring. The soup consists mainly of tubers and roots from the gardens.”

I wipe a hand over my mouth, frowning. “Is this common fare here? Do the Fae kings enjoy this kind of food?”

“In this palace, at this point, we eat what we can,” he says quietly, and before I can ask what he means by that, he gestures to the door. “Now tell me, if you’re done with the soup, do you know anything about wounds caused by iron?”

While I’ve bound minor wounds caused in the kitchens and the palace’s backyard, I’m no healer. Nevertheless, I can’t pass up the opportunity to explore the palace more, search for a chance to flee.

So I don my cape pretending I’m cold, in case I manage to leave the palace, and follow Jassin. He’s moving so fast through the corridors that daunted me earlier today that I can barely keep up, suddenly more sprite than man, reminding me exactly what I’m trying to forget—that he isn’t human and this isn’t my world.

I’m led through the dead wing where I’m confined to the living part of the palace—as far as I can tell, at least, feeling lost once more in the endless corridors and galleries. We finally reach an open, ornate black door. Jassin knocks and bows, hissing at me to curtsy.

When I straighten and follow Jassin inside, I find myself inside what looks like another study—much more spacious and luxurious than the one in which I was locked up yesterday. Again a fire is burning in the fireplace, warming up the vaulted room, and there are thick carpets under my feet, muffling my steps. Wooden shelves line the walls, stuffed with more rolled-up parchments and actual leather-bound books.

Stories, I think. So many stories waiting to influence people’s minds.

Then the king moves out of the shadows, a broad-shouldered outline, eclipsing everything else inside the room. His horns glint, his hair shines like polished onyx, but for the first time, he’s not dressed in leathers. His black woolen leggings mold to his muscular legs and his shirt—black, always black—is cinched at the waist with a broad leather belt. His feet are bare. He’s as relaxed-looking as I’ve ever seen him—and yet there’s a tension about him, in the line of his jaw, the shadows in those gorgeous eyes.

Maybe it’s me. After our last discussion, he has every right to feel wary.

Try, I tell myself. Try to befriend him. Maybe then he will stop locking your door, at least. Maybe he’ll show you a map of the palace. You never know.

“Jassin.” His bass voice brushes over my skin, leaving goosebumps. “Why did you bring her?”

He doesn’t sound pleased.

“To take a look at the wound, Sire.” Jassin bows again. “It’s been bothering you all day.”

“I’m fine.” He grimaces. “I will be fine tomorrow,” he amends.

“Sire, the nights aren’t helping. Let her aid you.”

“What happens in the nights?” I ask and they both fall silent, the king glaring at Jassin, Jassin studying his hands.

Oh nice, more secrets.

“Take her back to her room.” The king turns away, that long, dark braid swinging against his broad back, charming and somehow vulnerable, unexpected like the rest of him. A study in contradictions—mostly annoying ones.

“Show me,” I say, refusing to be led back so quickly, before I get a chance to learn anything useful. “Show me the wound.”

I don’t really expect him to comply. It is possible, though, that in this world, like in mine, the women are the ones who usually tend to men’s hurts, while men pretend they are indestructible, not susceptible to pain, because they are idiots.

A universal truth, I reckon.

I’m vaguely aware of Jassin placing a pile of fresh bandages beside me and making his retreat, exiting the study, as I walk around the desk to face the king.

He turns his head ever so slightly to grace me with a dark glare. “I have work to do,” he says.

“What, reading knightly romances and poetry?”

He blinks, a sweep of dark lashes, his anger replaced momentarily by confusion. “What? I read reports from the provinces.”

“Boring, then.”

“No, it’s… unpleasant,” he admits and resumes his glowering. “And necessary.”

“Will you let me look at that wound?”

He huffs, eyes sparkling in the light of the fire like gems. “If you must.”

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