One Dark Throne (Three Dark Crowns #2)(93)

Nicolas turns her to face him. Her breath is already fast.

“I do not know why I am so nervous,” she says.

“Do not be.”

He kisses her.

It is not like Pietyr’s kisses. Not like a dam breaking. It will take some getting used to, but at least his lips are soft. He strips her of her gloves.

“These scars.” He stares at her hands. “Will they fade?”

“I do not know,” she says, and tries to pull her hands away. But instead of being disgusted, the sight of the scars only seems to arouse him further. He bites them and traces them with his tongue. He kisses her neck and her collarbone, and his touch is rough, as though their wedding has made him bold. She has heard it is like that sometimes with mainland men. Though she does not remember where she heard it. From Pietyr, perhaps, during her education. Or from Genevieve, meaning to frighten her.

Nicolas takes himself out of his shirt and works his fingers into the fastenings of her gown.

Katharine turns away.

“Stop. Wait.” She walks through the anteroom and into her bedchamber. It has all happened so fast. The duel, her crowning, poisoning Arsinoe. She has had barely a moment to breathe, and now she feels all those missed breaths clawing at her throat.

“Wait for what?” Nicolas asks. He follows her and kisses her shoulder. Gentler now. She closes her eyes.

In the morning, it will be over. She will execute Mirabella, and the hum in her blood will quiet. The dead queens of the Breccia Domain satisfied. But even as she leans into her king-consort’s arms, she feels the dead queens picking at her, surging through her. They make her strong and never leave her alone.

Pietyr, I should never have sent you away, she thinks as she flinches from wetness left on her neck by Nicolas’s kisses.

Nicolas stops. He pulls her up, holds her chin so she must look him in the eye.

“Are you thinking of him?” he asks.

“No,” she lies.

“Good.” He picks her up and carries her to the bed. “Because he is not here.”





THE VOLROY





Arsinoe’s blood pounds in her ears as they head up and up the Volroy steps. She feels safer now that Jules is there, even though she is still in the lead. Part of her thought that when they freed Jules and Joseph, Jules would take over the escape. But they will get out either way.

They reach the next floor, and Arsinoe presses flat to the wall. This is the last gate. She remembers the ornate iron brazier in the center of the room from when they were being dragged down to the cells. She leans forward by a fraction and quickly leans back. There are so many guards. No less than ten. A few are seated around the rectangular table. Others lean against the walls. Three stand directly beside the passageway through the gate. All are armed with clubs and knives. Two carry crossbows.

Arsinoe turns and holds up ten fingers. Jules nods. Joseph’s and Mirabella’s faces pale. But there is no way out but through.

Arsinoe takes a deep breath. She hopes that everyone knows what to do. And that they are able to do it.

She barrels into the room and runs headlong into the nearest guard, dropping her shoulder into his chest so hard that she hears a crack. That must be good, because he folds up and hits the floor without throwing so much as a punch.

“The scarred queen! The queens!” The guard by the gate shouts. Chairs tip over as the guards at the table rise. They hesitate to raise weapons against queens. Especially one who seems able to come back from the dead.

Jules darts out from the shadow of the corridor and levels one of them holding a crossbow. Camden, snarling, quickly pins the other, and Joseph rips the weapon from his hands.

“Quiet! No one move!” Arsinoe commands, hands out. “Get to the middle of the floor. Lie on your bellies!”

A guard wearing a black captain’s sash shakes her head.

“We can’t let you out of here, my queen,” she says.

“You can, and you will,” says Arsinoe.

But the captain’s hand goes to her short-bladed sword. She draws it and spins away from Arsinoe, aiming for Joseph. It is a fool’s move. Jules’s war gift stops the sword from ever coming down, and Joseph reflexively fires the crossbow. The bolt sinks deep into the captain’s chest.

The sight of their captain spitting red sends the rest into a frenzy. Arsinoe is immediately shoved and has to duck fast to avoid the swing of a black-lacquered club. The sound of it ringing off the stones makes her dizzy. That could have been her head, split wide open. Ducked low, she grabs for the knife at the guard’s belt and sinks it into his leg, then into his shoulder as he falls.

Someone else’s club catches her in the back. Her vision swims bright and dark, and she collapses onto the floor.

There is so much noise. So much struggle. Someone steps on her hand and crushes it. Mirabella is screaming.

“Jules?” Arsinoe groans. “Where is Jules?”

Bones pop, and the guard who hit Arsinoe falls dead to the ground. Someone reaches underneath her and pulls her up.

“I’ve got you, Arsinoe,” Jules says. “I’ve got you.”

Arsinoe turns to look at her, and her eyes widen.

“Jules, look out!”

But before the knife can swing down, the attacking guard bursts into flames. Mirabella’s face is furious, her fire so hot that the guard only shrieks for a moment. She lowers the fire as the stench of burned flesh spreads heavily through the air. Jules coughs amid the smoke and fires a crossbow bolt into the dying body, to put him out of his misery.