Rebel Spring

Again, she regretted having drunk so much wine. She desperately needed her thoughts to be sharp, not muddy.

“So it seems we’re finally alone,” he said.

Cleo was certain he could hear how loud her heart now beat.

Magnus leaned over and picked up a red rose petal, squeezing it between his fingers. “Did they really think this all was necessary?”

She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “You don’t find it . . . romantic?”

He released the petal and it fluttered slowly down to the floor, where it landed like a splash of blood. “As if I care about such drivel.”

“Many men would on their wedding night.”

“About roses and candles? No, princess. Most men could care less about such things. There’s only one thing men are interested in on their wedding night and I think you’re already very aware what that is.”

Her heart doubled its pace.

Whatever stricken expression she now wore coaxed a low chuckle from his throat. “That look . . . such contempt. Am I really that ugly to you?”

The question took her by surprise. Ugly? Despite the scar, he was far from ugly—at least, physically.

“Far worse,” she said honestly.

He trailed his fingers over the length of his scar as he studied her for a moment.

She clutched the dagger. If he came any closer she would use it.

“Believe me, princess, I have no illusions of any of this. I know you hate me and that will never change.”

“Should it?” Her words came out hoarse. “Actually, I can’t think of a single reason why I should feel anything toward you.”

“No, it’s well within your rights to feel nothing toward me at all—as it is in many arranged marriages. But hate is something. The problem with hate, however, is it leaves you at a disadvantage. It clouds your mind every bit as much as five goblets of wine can.”

Magnus moved toward the bed, his gaze focused on the thick, mahogany posters. He traced his index finger along the carving on one of them. He was now closer to her. Too close. She didn’t step away. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear, especially now that there was no one around to intervene.

“This reminds me of my grandfather.” Magnus’s tone turned wistful. “He had a book about sea creatures and he told me stories about them when I was a child. He snuck past my father so he could do so, after my nursemaid put me to bed. My father never cared much for amusing stories—or amusing anything, really. If I couldn’t learn something tangible from a book it was banned from the palace. Or burned. But when my grandfather was king it was different.”

Cleo hadn’t noticed the carving on the bedpost until now. Fish and shells and maidens of the sea with tails instead of legs, all carved intricately into the dark wood. It was beautiful and crafted by a renowned artist from Hawk’s Brow whom her father had commissioned to carve many other fine pieces around the castle.

“I’ve heard a little about King Davidus,” she said when silence fell. “He was different than your father.”

Magnus snorted softly. “He was indeed. Makes me wonder sometimes if my grandmother had taken a demon lover that helped create my father. My grandfather was firm in his rule, of course. He was no pushover. But he was kind and his people loved him. He didn’t need to govern his kingdom with an iron fist and the threat of blood.” His gaze met hers and something slid behind his eyes that looked like grief. “He died when I was six years old. He drank something that didn’t agree with him.”

“Someone poisoned him?”

There was still that strange and unexpected pain in his eyes, but his mouth pressed into a hard line. “Not ‘someone.’ I saw him put the poison in the goblet, emptying it from a hollow ring. I watched him hand it to my grandfather. Watched my grandfather drink it.”

Cleo was silent, listening.

“And when my father saw that I’d seen what he did, he smiled as if I should approve. I didn’t understand at the time, but I do now. My father will do whatever it takes to rid himself of someone standing in his way. Nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change. Understand that, princess, and your life will be much easier.”

What was this? A warning? Was Magnus actually trying to help her?

“You don’t think me a threat, do you?” she asked carefully.

He drew closer to her—much too close. She clutched the knife behind her so tightly the handle dug painfully into her palm.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Magnus said. “There’s no magic behind a thought, unless you’re a witch.”

“So you do whatever he says, whenever he says it.”

“That’s right. And I’ll continue to do so.”

“He means to kill me, doesn’t he?” The very thought caused more fear to slither out from its hiding places—but it was joined by a boiling rage.

A small frown creased his brow. “Paranoid, are we? Not the usual attitude of a brand new bride.”

Cleo glared at him. “Don’t patronize me. I know what you’re planning.”

“Do you?” He cocked his head. “I find that utterly impossible to believe. After all, the one who could have spied for you is gone. You cleverly positioned Mira in a way that could have netted you some valuable information.”

Pain wrenched in her chest at the mention of her dead friend. She hadn’t suggested Mira be Lucia’s attendant so the girl could spy, only that it might help her survive.