The King's Cursed Bride

Trapped

She slipped a hand beneath her hood to once more massage the prickling on her neck. As she'd searched for jobs throughout the day, her foreboding had grown stronger. It was in the tight squirming of her chest, the shadows that seemed to shift in her peripheral vision, and goose bumps shimmering down her arms.

She knew Zonah wasn't a safe city, so she'd stuck to crowded places as she searched for employment. Thus far, the only occupation she'd been offered was as a woman of the night, which of course wasn't an option and never would be. In this city, it seemed all buildings and business were clustered around the nighthouses.

As if summoned by her thoughts, a marble nighthouse appeared around the next corner. If The Nighthouse of Iver hadn't been painted above the building's pearly pillars, she would have thought it a palace. The doors to the night house were propped open, inhaling and exhaling a constant flow of men. Those entering had eyes shining with excitement, smiles tucked into the corners of their mouths. Those leaving looked bedraggled—hair tussled and under eyes dark, yet their expressions were smug with satisfaction.

Women from balconies above wiggled dainty fingers at men below. With the tight fit of their gem-hued dresses and their plummeting necklines, it seemed their clothing revealed more than it concealed. Her cheeks flushed with color. This was where Viltus had been distracted by that shameless woman. She began to turn away from the despicable place when a behemoth of a man lumbered down the stairs of the tavern.

Somehow, even with scruff shadowing his jaw, he appeared polished. Perhaps it was in the way his black curls glistened, as if recently washed, or how he towered over everyone with his erect posture.

Though the women on the balconies above continued to flirt and giggle with those below, they seemed more subdued. Within a few seconds, they had turned from nightwomen, their waves and even hips moving fluidly, to little marionette puppets with painted smiles.

The man leaned a broad shoulder against a marble pillar, dark eyes skimming the crowd.

And when they landed on her, nausea knotted in her stomach as a smirk marred his eerily familiar face.

He was the man who'd tried to corner her in the alley.

Abruptly, he pushed off the pillar behind him and jogged down the marble stairs.

Carissa's feet welded to the stones beneath them as she stared at the oncoming man.

Then he turned and drove his shoulder forward, slicing through the crowd like a Yare Wolf's howl sliced air.

She lifted her feet. They seemed slow to heed her commands, as if she were wading through honey. She pumped her legs, swung her arms, and sprinted as quickly as possible while bumping into and nudging past those around her, her satchel thumping against her side as she ran.

A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed what she already knew:

She couldn't outrun him.

She skirted around a man tugging a wheelbarrow of vegetables behind him. Her assailant was from Zonah, so he probably knew the city and its alleys better than she. She turned onto another main road, chest tight from its heaving. It felt like a noose had constricted around her neck, yanking her throat so tight she could only inhale thimblefuls of air. She was running out of both breath and ideas.

A firm hand captured her wrist. "Come."

She tugged against her new attacker, until she saw his face from beneath his healer's robe. Viltus.

He dragged her through the crowd, towards an alley.

She stumbled along behind him and ceased resisting. For the moment, he was a lesser threat.

They raced around a corner before he stopped near a backdoor.

He fumbled with the front of his robe. "Help me remove this."

She curled her fingers around the thick, woolen fabric, parted it to reveal a few clasps running down the front, and undid them. Soon, the robe pooled on the ground beside his boots. He shoved it behind a large clay jar before trying to open the door. The door rattled against its frame but it remained unyielding.

What was he doing? Why had he decided to suddenly to remove his cloak? Had it grown too warm for him? She tossed a glance over her shoulder. The alleyway remained empty. "Are you mad?"

He turned towards her with arched brows. "Quite, though not in the way you think." Judging from the set of his jaw, he most certainly was not mad. He was furious.

The door he'd been yanking on swung open. A boy so bony he appeared fragile stared up at them with dark eyes and parted lips, revealing he'd lost two of his teeth.

Viltus edged the door open wider, and the boy stepped back. As Viltus pulled her inside, heat washed over her, and sweat immediately moistened her skin. Everything glowed orange with fire and heat.

This was a kitchen, bustling with many men and a few women who were too busy tending boiling pots, stone ovens, and slathering meats in spices to notice them. Tables, laden with bowls and platters of pork, fruit, and bread, crowded the room.

Viltus shut the door behind them and slid a wooden bar back in place to lock it. A half second later, a thump pounded against the door. Ice flashed across Carissa's skin. Was that her attacker?

The boy's gaze darted from them to the door and back. "I can't let you stay. I'm not supposed to let strangers in or I'll get whipped again." His voice was crisp and clear, untainted by the heavy accent slurring the words of many of Zonah's peasants.

Viltus uncurled his palm to reveal a tiny silver coin. "Just hide us somewhere. No one will notice."

Carissa stiffened as someone pounded the door again.

The boy pursed his lips and stared down at the coin before nodding. "There's a supply closet in the back. No one goes there but me."

The boy turned away from the kitchen, led them down the hallway, and opened a narrow closet door.

Carissa peered around Viltus' shoulder. "But there's only enough room for one."

Viltus shook his head, not even looking back at her. "No, this will suit us. The less space we take up, the better." He stepped aside and gestured for her to enter first.

Once more, she'd be forced to endure close proximity to him. She grimaced. Hopefully they wouldn't need to hide long.

She turned to the side and slipped into the narrow door. If it weren't for the begrimed wooden buckets and the mops and brooms shoved against a corner, there would have been sitting room for one person. She crinkled her nose. Even if she somehow managed to bear Viltus' presence, the smell was enough to make her stomach clench.

She pasted herself to the wall as Viltus squeezed in after her. They did both fit, though their feet were crowded together. At least she had her satchel clutched to her chest, or else she'd brush against him each time she dared to breathe.

Viltus extended the coin to the boy.

The boy shook his head, pressing against Viltus' fingers. "There's no need." A moment later, the door shut. Slivers and tendrils of light glowed from holes in the wooden door.

Viltus' hot breath fanned her cheek. "Whatever were you thinking?" The words came out slow and jagged, as if he spoke past clenched teeth.

She tried to smother her back against the wall, but stepped on something. She tripped and the objects in the closet clattered before she fell against him.

His arm curled around her. Though his words were harsh, at least his touch was gentle. Even with her satchel between them, she felt his chest rise and fall as they both listened. Had someone heard the noise?

"Boy! Open the alley door. It seems the farmer is early." The harsh voice rang above the kitchen's ruckus.

A few moments later a door slammed open.

"You're not the farmer!"

"I'm looking for two people. A woman and a healer." At the sound of the deep voice, shivers shot down her spine. Its resonant quality reminded her of rolling thunder.