The Cogsmith's Daughter (Desertera #1)(83)

King Archon grabbed Aya and hugged her to his chest. He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead repeatedly. “No, my dear, never. I told you when we had lunch—you are the smartest, wittiest, most challenging woman I have ever met. Every moment with you is a new adventure. I could never grow tired of you. I would never, ever need to replace you.”

Aya did not know what to do. Her father was not there to show her how to unwind the king like a mechanical animal. Dellwyn was not there to teach her a move to escape. Madam Huxley was not there to shelter her. She was entirely, hopelessly on her own, trapped against the will of the man she hated most in the world.

“I can’t believe you,” Aya whispered.

“You must, Aya. Please, my dear, you must know how I feel about you.”

“I know what you can do.” Aya shook her head. “I will never believe you.”

“I will make you believe me.” The king’s hands raced over her body, rubbing her shoulders, sliding down her arms, passing over her backside, running back up her stomach, caressing her breasts. His lips found her neck and sucked the breath out of her. Aya pushed at his chest, but he pinned her back against the clock. She thought she heard the glass of the clock’s body crack under their combined weight, but it did not shatter. She tried harder to push the king away, but she was not strong enough. This left her without another choice.

No matter what Lord Varick and Queen Zedara had planned together, Aya would not take the fall for them, not without a fight. Aya stretched her hand down to the folds of her dress and tugged at them, trying to get her hand underneath to reach the screwdriver.

King Archon noticed the movement and pushed Aya away, holding her by her shoulders at arm’s length. She was somewhat curved in front of him, her hand under her dress at her knee, like a child caught wrist-deep in the baker’s bin. The king stared down at Aya’s hand beneath her dress, and a wicked smile spread across his face. “I knew you’d come around.”

Aya wanted to scream, to lash out and hit the king, but her voice caught in her throat, and he picked her up in his arms. King Archon carried Aya over to the fainting couch and threw her down on top of it. She tried to push herself up, but the king flopped down on top of her.

“Sorry, darling,” he growled. “I like to be on top.”

Before she could retort, the king pressed his lips against Aya’s, stealing the sound of her voice in his mouth. He used his left hand to hold her right one above her head, and with his own right hand, he began unbuttoning his trousers. Aya squirmed beneath him, trying to break the kiss, but this only encouraged King Archon to kiss her harder and work faster at his buttons.

As the king pushed his trousers below his hips, Aya's free hand desperately groped the folds of her dress for her father’s screwdriver. She felt it beneath the fabric, but she could not get her fingers around the metal. The king began to help, unknowingly, pushing the fabric of her dress aside so that he could reach her flesh. For the first time, Aya was thankful for the king’s lips on hers—his head blocked her vision so that she did not have to watch what was about to happen.

More than any other time in her life, Aya begged the Benevolent Queen to send her back in time. Back to her father’s house on the morning they went to the palace, so she could make him stay home or take the vortric cog with her to pacify the king. Back to her hovel with Dellwyn, where she could feel safe and loved for the person she truly was. Back to the Rudder, to the night when Lord Varick came to her, so she could persuade him to simply assassinate the king instead. Back to any rough client who took from her without kissing, without talking, without further desire. Aya knew it would be useless—she could not change time—but she would have rather relived any moment of her life than be in her body for what was about to happen.

As he was about to enter her, the king’s hand landed on the screwdriver. He stopped moving, stopped kissing Aya, and pulled back the last layer of fabric to reveal the metal tool. His blue eyes grew wide, and he threw Aya back on the couch, gripping her neck in his hand. “What is this?”

Aya had never known the absence of air. Time seemed to stop, and the world grew quiet. She felt the king’s hand around her neck, felt her windpipe compressed, but nothing else. She saw in more detail than ever before—the vein bulging from King Archon’s forehead, the spittle in his pointed beard, the black specks in his pores. It was as if all of life had paused to allow her to witness it in its most vicious form, one last time.

“I was just about to ask you the same thing, husband.”

Aya looked over the king’s shoulder to see Queen Zedara and a dozen of her guards standing in the round room’s doorway. In his shock, King Archon released Aya, and she was able to scramble up from the couch and grasp at her neck, the screwdriver still strapped to her thigh, now covered by the skirt of her dress. She took several deep breaths, and she imagined that must have been what it felt like to drown.

“Zedara!” Aya gasped. A wave of relief washed through her body. Zedara had come through, after all. “Thank goodness you’re here!”

Queen Zedara stared at Aya as if she were a poisonous lizard. “You, peasant, will never address your queen that way again. Guards, seize them!”

Three guards ran to King Archon, two grabbing his arms and one grabbing him by the cravat. Two other guards ran over to Aya, each one grabbing one of her arms. Aya was too stunned to even thrash against them. She looked at Queen Zedara with wide eyes, her jaw hanging slack. She had been right about the queen. Zedara had planned this, waiting to barge in until Aya looked guilty of adultery.