Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 115347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Viori raised her chin and marched to the picnic basket, where she found a clean dress. A sheer, iridescent creation that molded to her curves, revealing more than it concealed. Better than nothing, she supposed.
Deciding to eat and regain her strength before her next escape attempt, she spread a blanket and displayed the perfect meal. Though her stomach now twisted with hunger, she didn’t eat. No, like a good captive, she waited for her host to join her. Because she was too tired to argue with him. Most definitely not because she missed the meals they had shared in his tent, when he had selected the choices pieces for her, and she tasted contentment for a little while. A dream of something better than she’d suspected possible.
As she waited, her eyelids grew heavy. A yawn cracked her jaw. See? Far too tired to argue. Or escape. Yes, she should probably postpone her next attempt until tomorrow. A good rest was often the difference between victory and defeat.
So, it was decided. A meal and a rest. All-out war tomorrow.
A shadow fell over her, and she jolted, concentrating on the present. Micah stood on the other side of the blanket, fully dressed, his scars hidden once again. How disappointing. Or appropriate. Yes. A far better description.
He looked over the feast and frowned. “You waited for me.”
Her cheeks heated. “It was an accident and means nothing. No need to discuss it. Let’s begin. I’m famished.”
A stiff nod preceded jerky motions, and yet his expression softened. He sat and filled a plate with the best morsels. Viori extended her hands to accept the offering—but he dug into the dishes himself.
Her mouth floundered open and closed. He hadn’t selected anything for her. Hadn’t watched to ensure she considered the first bite pleasing. She...she...hardly cared, that was what. She didn’t need his help. She never had, never would.
Trembling, she filled a plate and nibbled on this and that. Nothing settled right. When she could stand the quiet no longer, she asked, “Are you truly going to imprison your queen and destroy her—your—family?” She tried for a conversational tone, and she thought she succeeded. Kind of. Mostly. “We’re all you’ve got, I’m thinking.”
To whom are you speaking? Micah? Or yourself? No. No! She had the kids. Her brother.
“You aren’t my family. I have my people. And yes,” her husband said simply. “As Kaysar’s wife has taught me, it’s better to have no queen than a feral beauty you cannot trust.”
He wasn’t wrong, yet his words still hurt. With a humph, she brushed her hair from one shoulder. “I knew you thought me beautiful. And I suppose I am feral. I’ve been alone since the age of five.” The information spilled from her, and she didn’t think she was sorry to share a bit of her history with him. A hidden part of her wanted him to understand. To know who she was. Why she was.
He continued eating without a care, not even sparing her a glance. “Please, go on. I’ve been expecting a sob story meant to earn your way back into my good graces since your capture. Please, do continue. Tell me why I should go easy on you.”
Viori’s hurt sharpened. She yanked her gaze from him and concentrated on her meal, pretending her hand wasn’t shaking. This was for the best, anyway. Micah didn’t deserve her truth. The agony of months spent alone with her memories and regrets, suspicious of everyone who approached her. Certain they plotted her downfall, as the centaurs had. Then the Winterland soldiers. So desperate for companionship, she’d felt like a bottomless void, needing, always needing. Willing to risk waking up in a strange world just to create a friend. A link with someone, anyone.
The reason she had created baby Krunk. A sapling when she’d fallen asleep, and fully mature when she next opened her eyes. He had guarded her well upon her return to the fae realm, ensuring her safety. Thus had begun the cycle of her life. Create. Rest. Strengthen. Create more. Rest harder. Strengthen slower.
“Nothing else to say?” Micah grated.
Her chest compressed, air seeping from her lungs. “There’s no need for me to go on,” she replied as airily as possible. “I don’t wish to be a queen. Not if you are the king.” How she ever convinced herself otherwise, she didn’t know. They’d always been headed for a royal split. Too many obstacles stood between them, each insurmountable. If not Kaysar, the war. If not the war, their past. If not their past, Micah’s expectations.
As she’d feared the day of their wedding, he preferred a female able to enchant his people and read. A skill most fae developed at a young age. But Viori’s schooling had ceased when her parents had died. Impossible to learn letters while you scurried from village to village, scrounging for food.