Curled up in bed, a book propped on the thick down comforter, Matilda was just getting to the sizzling first kiss in her latest novel when a knock thudded on her door.She slammed the book shut and sat up against the pillows. “Yes?”The handle turned, and there he was.Leonard still wore his leathers, the overlapping scales of them full of shadows that made him look like some great, writhing beast as he shut the door.He leaned against the carved oak, his wings rising high above his head like twin mountain peaks.“What?” She slid the book onto the nightstand, sitting up further. His eyes dipped to her sleeveless silk nightgown, then quickly returned to her face. “What?” she demanded again, angling her head. Her unbound hair slid over a shoulder, and she saw him mark that, too.His voice was rough as he said, “I’ve never seen you with your hair down.”She always wore it braided across her head or pinned up. She frowned at the locks that flowed to her waist, the gold amongst the brown
Five days later, Leonard sat before the desk of the library’s high priestess and watched her enchanted pen move. He’d met Clotho a few times over the centuries—found she had a dry, wicked sense of humor and a soothing presence. He’d made a point not to stare at her hands, or at the face he’d only seen once, when Mor had brought her in so long ago. It had been so battered and bloody it hadn’t looked like a face at all.He had no idea how it had healed beneath the hood. If Madja had been able to save it in a way she hadn’t been able to save Clotho’s hands. He supposed it didn’t matter what she looked like, not when she had accomplished and built so much with Rhys and Mor within this library. A sanctuary for females who’d endured such unspeakable horrors that he was always happy to carry out justice on their behalf.His mother had needed a place like this. But Rhys had established it long after she’d left this world. He wondered if Azriel’s mother had ever considered coming here, or if
Hoping Clotho wouldn’t come shove him over the railing for disobeying her orders, he said, “All right. Throw the right hook.”Matilda did so. And dropped her damn elbow.“Get back into position.” She did, and he asked, “May I?”Matilda nodded, and kept perfectly still as he made minute adjustments to the angle of her arm. “Punch again. Slowly.”She heeded him, and his hand wrapped around her elbow as it began to dip. “See? Keep this up.” He maneuvered her arm back into starting position. “Don’t forget to flow the weight through your hips.” He took her arm, keeping a good foot of distance between their bodies, and moved it through the punch. “Like this.”“All right.” Matilda reset herself, and he took a step away. Without his order, she did the punch again. Perfectly.Leonard whistled.“Do that with more force and you’ll shatter a male’s jaw,” he said with a crooked grin. “Give me a combination one-two, then four-five-three, then one-one-two.”Matilda ’s brows bunched as she reset
Simmons pulled her bloodred cloak tightly around herself and pressed into the shadows of the closet, listening to the three men who had broken into her cottage.She’d tasted the rising fear and rage on the wind all day and had spent the afternoon preparing. She’d been sitting on the thatched roof of the whitewashed cottage when she spotted their torches bobbing over the high grasses of the field. None of the villagers had tried to stop the three men— though none had joined them, either.A Crochan witch had come to their little green valley in the north of Fenharrow, they’d said. In the weeks that she’d been living amongst them, carving out a miserable existence, she’d been waiting for this night. It was the same at every village she’d lived in or visited.She held her breath, keeping still as a deer as one of the men—a tall, bearded farmer with hands the size of dinner plates—stepped into her bedroom. Even from the closet, she could smell the ale on his breath—and the bloodlust. Oh, t
Matida and Leonard rode down the dusty road that meandered between the boulder-spotted grasslands and into the southern foothills. She’d memorized enough maps of Wendlyn to know that they’d pass through them and then over the towering Cambrian Mountains that marked the border between mortal-ruled Wendlyn and the immortal lands of Queen Maeve.The sun was setting as they ascended the foothills, the road growing rockier, bordered on one side by rather harrowing ravines. For a mile, she debated asking Leonard where he planned to stop for the night. But she was tired. Not just from the day, or the wine, or the riding.In her bones, in her blood and breath and soul, she was so, so tired. Talking to anyone was too taxing. Which made Leonard the perfect companion: he didn’t say a single word to her.Twilight fell as the road brought them through a dense forest that spread into and over the mountains, the trees turning from cypress to oak, from narrow to tall and proud, full of thickets a
The King finished off the roast chicken and sipped from whatever was in his bloodred glass. “You’re quiet this morning, Prince.” The conqueror of Texas reached for a platter of smoked fish.“I was waiting for you to speak, Father.” Night-black eyes shifted toward him. “Unusual, indeed.”Maxwell tensed. Only Matida and Bolton knew the truth about his sword —and Bolton had shut him out so completely that Maxwell didn’t feel like attempting to explain himself to his friend. But this castle was full of spies and sycophants who wanted nothing more than to use whatever knowledge they could to advance their position. Including selling out their Crown Prince. Who knew who’d seen him in the hallways or the library, or who had discovered that stack of books he’d hidden in Matida ’s rooms? He’d since moved them down to the tomb, where he went every other night—not for answers to the questions that plagued him but just for an hour of pure silence.His father resumed eating. He’d been in his
Aiden didn’t act without a reason. Perhaps the general had convinced his father to force this excursion. But for what purpose, Maxwell couldn’t grasp. Unless Aiden merely wanted to get a feel for what sort of man Maxwell had become and how well Maxwell could play the game. He wouldn’t put it past the warrior to have done it just to assess a potential ally or threat —Aedion, for all his arrogance, had a cunning mind. He probably viewed court life as another sort of battlefield.Maxwell let Bolton ’s hand-selected guards lead him back into the wonderfully warm castle, then dismissed them with a nod. Bolton hadn’t come today, and he was grateful—after that conversation about his sword , after Bolton refused to speak about Matida , Maxwell wasn’t sure what else was left for them to talk about. He didn’t believe for one moment that Bolton would willingly sanction the deaths of innocent men, no matter whether they were friends or enemies. Bolton had to know, then, that Matida wouldn’t
He didn’t even know who she was.She’d been appointed full healer a year ago, and had been called to attend to the prince, the captain, and their friend countless times. And the Crown Prince still had no idea who she was.She hadn’t lied to him—about failing to keep records of everything. But she remembered it all. Especially that night a month ago, when the three of them had been bloodied up and filthy, the girl’s hound injured, too, with no explanation and no one raising a fuss. And the girl, their friend …The King’s Champion. That’s who she was.Lover, it seemed, of both the prince and his captain at one time or another. Sorscha had helped Amithy tend to the young woman after the brutal duel to win her title. Occasionally, she’d checked on the girl and found the prince holding her in bed.She’d pretended it didn’t matter, because the Crown Prince was notorious where women were involved, but … it hadn’t stopped the sinking ache in her chest. Then things had changed, and when the gi