His hand is warm in mine as we cross the hall. But when we reach the center of the dance floor, a guard stops us, speaking to Zev in a hushed whisper, too low for me to make out.
A deep sigh escapes Zev, and he glares at the table where his brother is seated. “I’ll be right back,” he says, jaw clenched tight, before marching to Faramir’s table.
Everything happens quickly after that.
CHAPTER THIRTY
AS ZEV DISAPPEARS INTO the crowd, a large group of servants walks past, arms laden with trays stacked with empty plates.
There’s a loud shout behind me. I’ve barely turned—
The distinct whoosh of metal whistling through air.
An ear-splitting shatter as fine ceramic meets hard marble.
Something large barrels into me.
A sharp crack—my head slams into the floor.
A heavy weight bears down on my body, compressing my lungs.
I can’t breathe. I can’t move.
Something wet seeps through my gown, warm and thick.
“MAYAH!”
Screaming nobles. Low, frantic mutters and high-pitched wails.
“The princess!”
Frenzied sounds of thudding boots and clacking heels.
“Seize him!” Command steeped with manic rage.
My head throbs.
Chaos.
“Mayah!” Zev’s panicked voice echoes closer.
There’s someone lying atop me. Zev rolls him off with a low grunt.
My husband exhales a loud string of curses.
The front of my turquoise gown is drenched with bright, red blood.
“Mayah, fuck. Say something.” He’s kneeling beside me, fingers carefully pressing over my abdomen, coming back stained with gruesome red. His hands are steady, but he can’t conceal the storm in his eyes.
“It’s not mine,” I rasp, sitting up. The back of my head throbs like someone took an ice chisel to it. Zev narrows his eyes at me, but my focus is on the servant who collapsed on top of me, the man Zev rolled off.
The attacker’s aim was true. But the servant walked by at the right—or wrong—moment.
A dagger is embedded deep in the unlucky man’s chest, its simple black hilt the only thing visible. His white shirt is dyed with the deep red of death. His eyes are closed, skin clammy. I scramble over to him, ignoring the pain in my skull, and set my palms against his neck.
A loud shout disrupts my focus. On the other side of the hall, guards have restrained a struggling, seething man. His face is blotchy with anger, blond hair disheveled, as he shouts, “Tundrayni bitch! You killed my brother!”
The air around my husband crackles.
“Take him to the dungeon,” Zev growls, hands flexing at his sides.
More guards dart over, encircling us until we’re concealed by a muscled barrier of metal and leather.
“Is the princess hurt?” one of the men asks. Gregoran—one of my assigned guards.
“I’m fine.” I gesture to the servant, still lying motionless on the cold floor. “But I need to heal him. Zev, the dagger.”
My husband yanks the blade from the unconscious man’s chest, his other hand never leaving my lower back. I press my palms against the man’s neck, sensing. He’s lost a lot of blood, but the dagger missed his heart and lungs.
“What do you think you’re doing?” a cold voice drawls.
It’s Faramir, elbowing his way past the guards. Varad comes to stand beside him.
“Healing,” I say flatly.
“Look at her”—Faramir chuckles menacingly—“bleeding herself dry for a common. Tundraynis really are soft.”
Enough distractions.
I don’t bother responding. I carefully unbutton the man’s shirt and inspect his wound—it looks deep, but the edges are clean.
Faramir tsks. “Bad luck, baby brother. Your wife is undressing another man on your wedding night.”
Vaguely, I’m aware of Zev’s low growl answering Faramir, but I focus my attention on the servant, channeling my power into him and mending the deep gash until his chest is seamless.
It’s done.
I sit back on my heels, facing the other servants hovering nearby with worried expressions. “Can you take him to the Healing Chambers? He needs rest. Feed him well when he wakes.”
A quiet chorus of gratitude rings out as they carry him away. The remaining servants and guards observe me with wide eyes and parted lips, though they seem awestruck, not hateful.
Slowly, I scan the rest of the hall. The guards encircling us parted at some point, likely when Faramir burst through. It’s deathly quiet. Every eye is riveted to me. Again.
Their new princess, on her knees, covered in blood, healing a nonwielder.
I glance at Zev but can’t decipher the emotions swirling in his eyes.
Worry? Anger? Pride?
“Take my wife to our chambers,” he finally says. He’s speaking to the guards, but his steely gaze never leaves mine. “And make sure she eats.”
Ten guards cluster around me until I can’t see past the line of leather.
They lead me from the hall.
To Zev’s chambers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MY HUSBAND’S CHAMBERS ARE exactly like him—rugged and masculine. And yet, something soft stirred in me when he called them our chambers, as if he’s determined to give me all of himself.
There’s no time to explore my new accommodations, though, because my handmaids herd me into the washroom, quickly peeling off my ruined gown. A bright red splotch smears my belly where blood seeped through the dress and coated my skin with the remnants of violence.
The women gasp dramatically and usher me into the bath—blessed Tides, a short bath.
Afterward, they dress me in a sheer black nightgown that barely covers my ass. Whoever designed it seemingly forgot that clothes are meant to conceal the body.
“Can I have a different nightgown?” I ask before the handmaids scurry away, arms covering my breasts. “One that has more … everything?”
“Princess,” one of the older handmaids says gently, “this nightgown will please your husband.”
I was attacked tonight, a man nearly died, and their priority is ensuring I’m pleasing to my husband?
When he comes to your bed, just do as he says. It will be easier.
Parting words from a different handmaid flit through my mind.
A lifetime ago.
“Whatever I wear will be on the floor soon enough,” I lie, voice low. “So does it really matter?”
The handmaids titter, but one of them fetches me a nightgown that reaches my knees—and isn’t see-through.
After they file out, I explore my new chambers. A large bed, covered in red rose petals, dominates the back half of the room. The plush carpet is soft beneath my bare feet as I walk along the perimeter, fingers skimming the dark walls.
Halfway around the room, my fingers scrape against a small, raised ledge—insignificant, but still a deviation. Frowning, I peer at the wall when—
There’s a sharp rap on the door.
I jump back.
Zev wouldn’t knock on his own door, would he?
“I have your meal, Princess,” a muffled voice calls.
A servant enters, eyes downcast, setting a large tray on a small table before leaving.
There’s only one plate. I guess Zev won’t be joining me. I quickly eat the roasted chicken and heal the dull throb in the back of my skull.
Tundrayni bitch. The words pulse through my mind no matter how hard I try blocking them out. You killed my brother.
Who was that man? He risked his life to end mine. If I had to guess, my husband is spending his wedding night in the dungeon torturing the would-be assassin for information.
I eye the petal-laden bed. Fatigue weighs heavy on my eyelids. Would Zev be upset if he returned to his chambers and found his wife fast asleep?
