HER QUEENDOM

Chapter 3: An Unholy Alliance

The violet fire in the hearth died as quickly as it had flared, leaving the chamber plunged back into its grim, suffocating twilight. The smell of vinegar and old blood felt heavier now, charged with the sudden, terrifying scent of ozone.

Evadne pressed her back against the cold stone wall, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her hand still tingled where she had touched him—a prickling, electric heat that bled up her arm and settled deep within her bones.

On the bed, Prince Alistair lay perfectly still. The violent, chest-racking coughs that had threatened to tear him apart moments before had ceased. For the first time since she entered the room, his breathing was steady, though shallow. He stared at her, his amber eyes burning with a dangerous, sharp focus. The helplessness of a dying man vanished, replaced by the lethal instincts of a prince raised among wolves.

"You are a witch," Alistair said, his voice no longer a wet rasp, but a low, jagged whisper that cut through the silence. "The King of Oakhaven has sent a practitioner of the forbidden arts into my bed. Speak, girl, before I call the guards to have you burned."

Evadne let out a sharp, breathless laugh, though there was no humor in it. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, trying to hide the trembling of her fingers. "A witch? If I had magic, Prince Alistair, do you truly think I would have spent the last seventeen years scrubbing your future in-laws' floors? Do you think I would have let my brothers hunt me like a dog, or let Penelope yank me by my hair?"

She took a step forward, her anger burning away the lingering remnants of her fear. "Look at me. I am a bastard. A servant’s daughter. I was thrown into a carriage with nothing but the rags on my back and a broken promise. Whatever just happened, I didn't cause it."

Alistair’s gaze drifted from her face down to her hands, then back to the hearth where the embers were now a dull, harmless orange. He looked down at his own palm—the skin was still deathly pale, the dark veins still visible, but the suffocating pressure that usually crushed his lungs had receded into a dull ache.

"Magic does not spark from nothing," Alistair muttered, leaning his head back against the pillows. His jaw tightened. "And it certainly does not soothe the curse ravaging my blood. For three years, the high healers of the north have pumped me full of nightshade and bitter root, waiting for me to die. Yet a single touch from an Oakhaven bastard does what their medicines cannot?"

"I told you, I don't know," Evadne snapped, though a small, persistent voice in the back of her mind whispered otherwise. She remembered the way the shadows in the room had seemed to stretch toward her. She remembered the metallic, iron-like taste that had coated her tongue the moment their skin met.

Before Alistair could reply, the heavy iron bolt on the outside of the oak door groaned.

Instinctively, Evadne froze. Alistair’s amber eyes snapped to the doorway, his entire posture stiffening.

The door swung open, and two figures stepped into the dim light. The first was Dowager Duchess Vane, her stiff black velvet skirts rustling like dead leaves against the stone floor. Behind her stood a younger man, dressed in an immaculate, silver-trimmed tunic. He bore a striking resemblance to Alistair, but his skin was healthy, his posture arrogant. This was Prince Julian, Alistair’s younger half-brother.

Julian’s eyes swept over the room, landing first on Evadne with a look of intense, unadulterated hatred. He didn't see a princess; he saw the blood of the enemy kingdom that had blockaded their ports. Then, his gaze shifted to the bed. A flash of profound disappointment crossed his features so quickly that anyone else would have missed it.

Evadne, however, had spent a lifetime reading the subtle shifts of cruel faces. She recognized that look instantly. It was the same look Queen Malicent wore whenever Evadne survived a winter sickness.

He wants him dead, Evadne realized, a cold dread settling in her stomach. The brother wants the throne.

"Still breathing, I see," Julian said, his voice dripping with forced sympathy as he stepped toward the bed. "We heard a disturbance from the corridor, brother. We feared the excitement of your... exquisite new bride had finally done you in."

"You underestimate me, Julian," Alistair replied, his voice slipping effortlessly into a cold, regal mask. He did not sound like a man who had been hacking up black blood moments ago. "It takes more than a long journey to put me in the ground."

Duchess Vane sneered, her eyes locking onto Evadne. "You. Why are you standing there like a brainless farm animal? You were brought here to serve the prince, not to clog the room. Fetch the wash basin and clean the blood from the floor. The sight of Oakhaven filth is offensive enough without the mess."

Evadne felt the familiar, hot sting of humiliation prickle at the back of her eyes. For a second, she was back in the Great Hall of Oakhaven, kneeling at the feet of her tormentors. She lowered her gaze, her muscles tensing as she prepared to nod and obey.

"She stays where she is," Alistair’s voice rang out, sharp and absolute.

The Duchess paused, her sharp eyebrows twisting upward. "Alistair?"

"The girl is my wife by law, Aunt," Alistair said, his amber eyes locked onto his brother, Julian, with a terrifying, silent promise. "She answers to me now. Not to the servants, not to you, and certainly not to my brother. If the floor offends you, have a maid clean it. Evadne remains at my side."

Julian’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. He looked between Alistair and Evadne, his eyes narrowing in deep suspicion. "Careful, brother. You protect a spy. Her father would like nothing more than to see Mournvale fall from the inside."

"Then it is a good thing I am not planning on dying anytime soon to let that happen," Alistair countered smoothly. "Leave us. I require rest."

With a stiff, resentful bow, Julian turned and marched out of the room, the Duchess following close behind, her glare promising retribution. The heavy door slammed shut, and the iron bolt slid back into place.

Silence descended upon the room once more.

Evadne stood by the bed, looking down at the man who had just defended her—a man she had despised only minutes ago. There were no love strings attached between them; she still saw him as a cynical, bitter stranger, and he still saw her as a potential threat. But in the dark, surrounded by vipers, a realization passed between them.

"They want you dead," Evadne whispered.

"And they want you broken," Alistair replied, looking up at her, the violet veins in his neck pulsing faintly. "It seems, bastards and dying princes make for identical targets."

Evadne slowly reached out her hand, hovering it just inches above his. "If my touch keeps you alive, Alistair... we might just survive them both."