The King's Cursed Bride

Not Alone

"A healer?" The first man snorted. "We haven't seen one of those around here. Go back on the streets where you belong." There was a sharp gasp, followed by a gurgling sound and strained breathing.

The man's laugh rippled across the room. "Do you know who I am?"

Carissa jerked, and Viltus' grip on her tightened. Was the man being hurt? She couldn't just stand here when this was her fault, could she? "Viltus?" she whispered.

Gray melded with shadows as her eyes adjusted. He shook his head. "Shh."

The conversation became too murmured and strained for her to hear anything.

"Sir?"

The sound of the faint, sweet-pitched voice coming from the kitchen made her muscles clench. What if the little boy were hurt? Or if the man chasing her suspected something?

"What?" Her pursuer's snarl rent the air.

"I–I didn't see a healer. I did see a man and a woman. They came right through the door you came through."

"And where did they go?"

"Somewhere to the front. Perhaps they're getting a room."

"If you're tricking me boy..."

Carissa strained against Viltus' grip. If only she could peer through the door, see if he needed help. But Viltus' grip remained unyielding.

"No, sir. I swear on the King's amulet."

There was a pause.

"Very well," he muttered. "But if you're lying, all of you will pay dearly."

Someone murmured something. Footsteps tapped against stone. After a moment, the swish of cloth, clank of pots, and clatter of work resumed.

Viltus' grip on her didn't loosen.

She uncurled one arm from her satchel to push against his chest. Now that the immediate danger was over, she was uncomfortably aware of how his arm felt tucked against the curve of her waist. "Viltus—"

"Shh."

She hoped her glare would pierce the darkness. "But he left."

"Or he might be waiting for us to come out of hiding."

Oh. She shifted her feet, until her foot nudged the bucket and she stilled. "But there's barely enough room to breathe in here."

"Ah. I have that effect on many women."

She jerked her palm from him, reminding herself a lady never slapped. "You're a cur."

He chuckled. "So you've told me." Each rise of his chest as he inhaled pushed him closer to her, crunching the satchel between them. At this point, it was unlikely the letters would fetch any coins.

She suppressed a shiver, even as heat rose to her cheeks. But perhaps that was just the warmth of the cramped closet and the ovens in the kitchen. "Then at least remove your hands from my person."

"And allow you to trip again? I think not."

She huffed. "Very well."

As they waited, the lines of his face turned from gray shadows to crisp edges, until she could see his face with clarity despite the darkness. He stared at her just as intently as she stared at him. Though she hadn't been running for several minutes, still her chest heaved and her heart pounded.

She swallowed and dropped her gaze to his chest, tilting her head down so she wouldn't be tempted to glance up at him again. For some reason, gazing into his eyes felt invasive, especially when their oceanic depths contained so many emotions, emotions she couldn't begin to decipher. Or perhaps she didn't want to.