Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
And everyone pretends to ignore the terrifying Saur’goth soldiers who stand guard around the room, but fail terribly, their nervous eyes darting furtively to the beasts—their armor, their weapons, their fangs—as they devour morsels of roasted meat and other delectables.
I spent the afternoon shuttling Malachi’s army into Cirilea. There must be at least a thousand here now, infiltrating city streets and terrorizing peasants and nobility alike. It’s a small fraction of what moves through the rest of the realm, unbeknownst to anyone.
“Are you not enjoying the meal the servants have prepared for their queen?” Malachi asks, tossing a bone to his plate.
“I am not hungry.”
“Eat,” he barks.
It does me little good to earn his displeasure, so I stab at a carrot and pop it into my mouth, chewing slowly so I have an excuse to not speak. Elijah was never one for sitting at the head of a table like this, waiting for constituents to climb the steps and kiss his ass.
But as I look at the fate who has possessed his body, his eyes alight with giddy mischief, his smug grin dripping with pomp, it is clear this is what Malachi has longed for.
My beloved trapped inside must loathe every second.
A silver platter clatters to the floor. It doesn’t take long to find the source—a young female servant who lost her balance or her nerve under the scrutiny of the Saur’goths. Now she scrambles on her hands and knees, collecting loose buns, her fingers narrowly avoiding the boots of the noble couple on their way here.
No wonder I have no appetite. My teeth grind as I prepare to digest their drivel.
“Your Highness,” they echo, their bows deep. “We are Lord and Lady Spire of Fernhoth,” the male introduces. “It has been forever since a Cirilean ruler has treated us to such a lavish affair.”
I barely stifle my snort. “Perhaps one was thrown while you two were locked in the tower for treason against your king.” I recognize his pinched face from the other day.
His eyes flash—with anger or fear, I’m not sure—but he quickly disguises it behind laughter. “A simple misunderstanding.”
“Which part?” He reeks of deceit.
Malachi chuckles as he settles a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I apologize for my love. She is very protective of me. But there is no need. No one here would be reckless enough to scheme against us.”
The male’s eyes widen with exaggeration. “Of course not!”
The lady echoes his words with a fervent shake of her head, as if I can’t see through her lies too.
“We will not disturb your meal further.” With bobs and bows, the two scurry away.
“You have much to learn about ruling a kingdom,” Malachi chastises.
I know better than to ask, and yet my curiosity overwhelms me. “Such as?”
He takes his time answering, ripping off a chunk of roasted duck with his teeth. Juice dribbles down his chin.
Elijah would have swiftly wiped that off with a napkin. Though, he would never eat like an animal.
Swallowing the mouthful, Malachi says, “You do not begin your rule with fear. You begin with compassion and benevolence. You lull them with charm.”
“So, when you beheaded that lord in the throne room, was that benevolence or charm?” I couldn’t care less about that sniveling fool—I’m sure he deserved it. “And what about the guard outside upon our arrival? And your threat to kill the exiled king?”
“Simple lessons. I delivered them with a smile, did I not? And I did not threaten to kill Zander, I promised to do so, and I gave him options.” Finally, he dabs at the grease. “Only use fear when they think you are weak.”
“And what of these Saur’goths, then?”
“They are proof of my strength.”
He has an answer for everything, warped or not.
Malachi’s intent gaze is on a youthful blond servant as she passes with a tray of roasted vegetables. “Things have changed much since I ruled here last. The slaves wore far less then.”
“Why would it matter what she wears?” I snap before I can rein in my jealousy. I know that look—I have seen it countless times, in my crumbling sanctum, when I was forced to submit my flesh for Malachi’s pleasure. But it has never been through my husband’s eyes. Elijah would never admire another female in such a way, not since he met me.
“Because I wish to appreciate that which I have had a hand in creating.” Anger etches into Malachi’s features. “Does my loyal servant feel I should not be permitted to do so?”
Fear cords my muscles. The one time I dared question the Fate of Fire’s intentions so bluntly, his punishment was swift and brutal, his blazing hand against sensitive flesh delivering an agony I did not think I would recover from.
I never dared question him after that.
I dip my head and remind myself yet again—this is not my Elijah. “You are permitted to everything you have had a hand in creating, Your Highness.”