Page 57 of The King's Queen

His lips part in questioning, worry coating his features, but before he can ask anything, the man on the ground is moving again. Something dark glints in his hand. A cursed blade. I recognized it from that night in Belam. The only way the cursed can kill me. Every soldier of the rebellion was armed with one. Then it clicked. Rowan had missed one.

And he’s about to miss it again. So caught up in his worry for my well-being, he doesn’t see the knife angle straight for his heart.

Without thinking, I open my palms and cry out in an ancient dialect. “Dila!” The word sounds broken on my heavy tongue, but perhaps Deungrid understands, because at that moment, a pure beam of light shoots from my hands into the man’s eyes. He screams out in pain, giving me a split second to act. I leap from the bed, grabbing the oil lamp from next to the bed and smashed it over his head.

For a moment there is silence, and then Rowan’s eyes drift from our assailant’s unconscious form to where I stand, still clutching tightly at the lamp. Then back to the body. Then to me. He whistles lowly.

“Nice form.”

A huff of laughter escapes from between my lips. “Thanks. Is he….”

“No.” Rowan’s eyes darken as he steps forward to assess the damage done. “No, he’s just knocked out cold. He will come to in a bit.” The mercenary lifts the blade from the other man’s hand and swears when he notices the same thing I did.

“We must have missed one,” I offer unhelpfully. Rowan’s shoulders square as he tosses my torn and blood-stained gown my way. I slip into it wordlessly as he takes to binding the man’s hands and feet together.

“If one got away, he probably told the others where he was going. We need to leave; our position is compromised.”

“And risk more of them finding us?”

“I’ll handle it. I’ll send word for Amír, she will take you back to the palace and take care of you.” He sighs heavily as he runs a bloody hand through his hair. Some of the blood streaks through his golden locks, painting them red and silver instead. His usually tan skin looks grey, and his eyes look heavy. Tired. He looks so tired.

I take a step forward and lay my hand gently on his shoulder. “And what about you? Who will take care of you?”

Rowan offers a sardonic grin, though it lacks his usual cocky flair.

“I’ll take care of me. Don’t you worry.” He props the man up against the wall before slipping out of the room, presumably to go send for Amír. Uncomfortable with the idea of being alone in a room with someone who wants me dead, I follow.

When we get to the bottom of the stairs, I catch a flash of red hair with a single white streak. Amír steps out from the shadows, her gun drawn and at the ready to greet us.

“You got here quickly.”

“An armed ambush on a royal carriage?” She scoffs. “News travels quick.”

I shift uncomfortably on the balls of my feet. Amír and I haven’t spoken since she’d saved my life, and I hers in return. The only form of communication between us since was a singular death glare the day I’d brought Torin and Blaine to the compound. A chill curls down my spine, licking each vertebra with cold fear as she sends another withering look my way.

Rowan clears his throat. “I’m going to take care of this. I need you to escort her back to the palace.”

Amír offers no verbal response, only harshly grabs my elbow to drag me out the door. I don’t even have the chance to say goodbye to Rowan. A sharp pain shoots through my heart. What if he’s injured while ‘taking care of’ this mess, or worse?

Amír only rolls her eyes at my apparently visible fear. “He’ll be fine. The one you should worry about is yourself.”

Her voice is colder than usual as she walks ahead, her steps stiff and shoulders squared. My tired and sore muscles groan as I jog to keep up.

“What do you mean?”

“Those rebels weren’t after some random pureblood. They were after you, weren’t they, Princess Verosa?”

My steps falter.

No. No, this couldn’t be happening.

Amír turns around with a wicked grin on her face. Her eyebrows pinch together as if they’re trying to hold the thin line between her patience and fury. My mouth sours as I fight the urge to vomit.

“It suddenly makes sense now. The naivety, the prejudice; the privilege.” Rowan’s second continues, stalking ever closer to me. “Does he even know what you’re asking of him? Does Rowan even know who you are?”

My hands begin to shake at my sides. How dare she ask such blunt questions, and how dare she be right?

“He knows who I am.” My voice shakes even at a whisper. “He just doesn’t know what I am.”

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