Page 43 of The King's Queen

“I can get this trip approved.” He speaks softly and slowly. “But I will need you to do something for me too.”

My spine straightens, but I nod my head as if to ask him to continue. What could the future king need from a tutor? I’ve seen these cases before, powerful men needing someone insignificant to do the dirty work. Normally I am the one hired for the dirty work, but something in his shifting gaze makes me pause.

I nearly choke when he says, “I need you to keep an eye on Blaine.”

“Pardon?” Vera probably would’ve laughed at me after punching the daylights out of her fiancé for suggesting such a thing.

Lucius’ eyes darken, and his shoulders tense. Something primal— somethingdarkexudes from his very being and fills the hall. A familiar shiver caresses my skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. It’s the same sensation I had on that day nearly 10 years ago. The day my mother left my father.

“I know about them. I’ve seen him pacing the halls at night outside of her room when he is supposed to be stationed at the other end of the palace.” Sothatis where Vera got the palace layout from. “I’ve seen them dining together, him staring when she’s not looking. We can’t have the captain of the Guard in love with my wife.”

“She’s not your wife.”

“Not yet,” Lucius amends with a small laugh, his hand firmly clasping my shoulder in an amicable gesture. “I trust you, Rowan, so let’s help each other out.”

- Chapter 16 -

Chapter15

Verosa

“Pack your bags, sunshine, we’re going on a trip,” Rowan says by way of greeting as he slams a stack of books down on my bedside table. I run my thumb over the spines, admiring the raised ridges of the titles beneath the pad of my finger.Ialenia Falls, Touch of Light, Power of the Pureblood Mages.

“And why, exactly, are you throwing down books on purebloods and their powers on my vanity… Hey! That’s fragile,” I hiss, batting a perfume bottle from his hand as he tosses it in the air. Gently, I set it atop the vanity and fix him with a glare.

“I’ve done my research, asked about, if you will, and the only name of any pureblood in this palace in the records is yours. The last pureblood in the palace died nearly nine years ago.” He responds casually, as if that answers my question in any way. My heart races for only a moment before I remember that titles are never included in the pureblood records. I’ve never been able to figure out why it is done that way but today I thank Deungrid for it. How could I have thought he wouldn’t try to find out more than I am willing to give? Everyone in the palace is keeping my identity a secret for now, but how long until he figures out the truth of who I am?

“Your point is?”

“Don’t you find it odd, that in a kingdom that practically worships the blessed, you’re the only pureblood?”

I shrug, “Purebloods are rare, whether blessed or cursed. I’m not too surprised.”

Rowan rolls his eyes, but his shoulders are tense as he stands and snatches the knapsack hanging from my bathroom door. Dramatically flinging open my closet, he rummages through, much to my protest, until he finds a dress that he deems acceptable and tosses it my way along with the sack.

“Hurry up and get dressed. The carriage leaves in half an hour.” Is all he says before disappearing out the door in a blink. As if he had never been here at all.

Repressing a shudder, I stare back to where he had stood moments before. Sometimes I find myself forgetting where he comes from. What he is capable of. There are moments now where I find his strength a reassurance, and his slivers of kindness a reminder. A reminder of the boy Emilie sees, trying to break through the pain of those secrets he harbors.

Then the mercenary comes back, and I’m left wondering where we stand.

Though the same could be said for the rest of the Nightwalkers. Derrín is rarely at the compound anymore; always off working on that secret project. I know Rowan knows what it is, and they just don’t trust me enough to say. Or it’s none of my business.

Kya is always kind and sweet, but she’s keeping secrets too. I’ll watch her eyes shift to avoid my gaze whenever someone brings up Varium, or the evident shame written across her face when she paints those whorls on her arms. She hasn’t told me why they’re painted on rather than tattooed, though, to be fair, I haven’t asked. I doubt even Rowan or Amír know what they mean, if anyone knew, it would be her twin.

I am keeping my own secrets as well, I often have to remind myself. No one knows that I am the heir to the throne, and per my request, both Lucius and my father have kept it a secret from Rowan. I had pleaded under the guise of desiring normalcy, saying I didn’t want special treatment from a new tutor. In reality, I wasn’t ready for the hatred that he would look at me with when he found out. It’s impossible to miss the obvious look of disgust on the mercenary’s face when he eyes the higher-ranked nobles of the palace. A countenance that only worsens whenever we pass those large oak doors to the throne room. Rowan may have his reasons, but he hates the royal family.

The knock comes right on time just as I had expected. Blaine had stood outside the door a few moments before knocking, presumably trying to figure out how to approach. We haven’t spoken since the incident at the compound, and after my talk with Emilie, I’m not sure how to face him. How pitiful. The man who was my best friend above all else is now pausing to figure out how to knock on my door. And I’m wondering whether or not to open it.

Blaine’s face is taut, his eyebrows furrowed, and jaw set when I open the door. I’m about to offer a sarcastic quip when I notice the dark circles worsening below his eyes, and he offers an armored arm.

“I’ve been sent to escort you to your carriage.” How welcoming.

Without a word, I accept his arm, a servant taking my bags despite my protests, and we walk through the weathered halls of the palace. The windows are all closed today to keep out the Autumn chill. Despite the heat wave flooding our borders only a few weeks ago, Autumn crept in silently before effectively having all the women changing from their summer dresses to fur coats. Krycolis has always been known for its extreme weather, but even this is a bit much for our kingdom. The cold kisses the back of my neck, as if death is trying to grip a spindly hand around my heart.

“Do the escorts know that Rowan doesn’t know who I am?” I ask in an attempt to both shake the chill and break the unbearable silence. Something tells me they’re related.

“All have been thoroughly debriefed on what they need to know.” Is his terse response.

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