Isla took the steps two at a time—she really shouldn’t have come. How had she been so foolish?
Terra had always warned about Nightshades. They were the villains in all her stories. The monsters.
She really hadn’t meant to. She had meant to portal somewhere else entirely, but one thought, while her puddle formed—
Here she was, in the most dangerous place in the world. Running from a group of guards, around dark stone corners, in halls that echoed and closed around her in cavernous arches.
Isla turned into a narrow hallway and crashed to her knees. “Come on,” she growled, pressing her starstick firmly against the ground.
No puddle formed.
Isla didn’t want to wonder what would happen if she wasn’t able to travel home. Nightshade lands were thousands of miles away from the Wildling newland . . . It would take months to return by ship, and how would she even pay for passage? She didn’t have any jewels on her. Now that she thought about it, no one in their right mind would agree to take her anywhere, anyway.
If anyone figured out who she was . . . she was dead.
The Centennial was just a year away. The Nightshade ruler was a monster. He had been invited to attend the event for the first time, according to her own invitation.
What would he do to her if he found her? Kill her immediately as the first step in breaking the curses? Imprison her? Torture her?
She swallowed. She had thought of her own room as a prison . . . how foolish she was. There were much worse places to be trapped.
Yells. Steps. The clatter of armor.
Instinct took over. She lunged for a door—and it was unlocked. Before the guards could spot her, she threw herself inside.
Another hallway.
Voices outside. Already. There were several more doors. She tried all of them.
Locked.
Locked.
Locked.
Locked.
The voices were closer. Without thinking, she started pounding on the last door, desperate, frantic—
It opened.
A woman stood there. Her arms were crossed.
“You’re late,” the woman said. “Put this on and join the rest.”
Isla had no idea who the woman thought she was, or who the rest were, but she knew luck when she saw it.
The woman all but shoved her into a different room. And Isla was so grateful, so afraid for the guards to find her, that she stripped off her clothes in the dark and put on whatever the woman had given her—fabric that was tight against her body. All Isla cared about was that it would make her look like the rest of the Nightshades. Even if the guards did find her here, she would blend in. Especially if she was joining people wearing the same thing.
The door swung open, and Isla nearly brandished the dagger she had kept strapped to her thigh, alongside her starstick.
It was just the woman. She had paint on her finger, and before Isla could object, she unceremoniously smeared it across her mouth.
“Go,” she said, pushing her toward another door.
A dozen other women were waiting on the other side. All dressed like her. She nearly sighed in relief. She blended in perfectly . . . especially with the red on her lips.
All she had to do was find her way back outside, where she could try her starstick again—
“Into position!”
Position? The women suddenly straightened into a line, one she quickly joined, wondering what in the world was happening.
Was this a fighting legion?
If so, why were they wearing dresses?
Was this some sort of rehearsal?
She swallowed. If it was, she would be found out momentarily. She obviously wouldn’t know any lines for a play, or choreography for a dance . . .
“I hope I’m chosen,” a woman to her left whispered to someone who seemed to be her friend.
“I hope I’m chosen,” she replied. “This is my fourth time hoping to get noticed. It would be an honor to be part of the ruling line.”
Ruling line?
Isla turned to the women to ask them what was happening, and why they looked so excited, when the door in front of them opened.
He walked in.
Isla froze.
She knew who he was instantly. Something about the way the air moved around him, about the resonance of his step. He was the tallest man she had ever seen, a foot and a half taller than her at least. He had relatively long black hair like spilled ink, falling across his forehead, curling around his ears. His mouth seemed set in a permanent frown. Unimpressed.
He was the king of nightmares, a demon.
She was dead. He had found her out. They had trapped her; the woman must have recognized her somehow, alerted the guards—
What an idiot. Poppy and Terra had taken such great pains to keep her safe, and she had disobeyed their orders, for what? To experience something new? How selfish she was.
Her fingers inched toward her thigh. She wouldn’t have a chance against the ruler of Nightshade, against any ruler—no matter how well she could handle a blade, power was power—but she would die with dignity. Fighting.
Just as her pointer finger found the smooth metal, his eyes met hers. She stilled.
His look was strange. There was no hint of fury, or even satisfaction. Just a slight widening of his eyes—a curiosity.
That didn’t make sense. If he was about to kill her, wouldn’t he announce his intention? Slay her where she stood, in front of all the others?
“You,” he said.
He was staring at her. He meant her.
She didn’t move a muscle. His eyebrows rose just a fraction of an inch. Surprise. Another unexpected emotion.
The woman from before all but shoved Isla forward, toward him.
The Nightshade ruler stared down at her. She didn’t breathe. Then, he turned and walked back through the door.
She was expected to follow him. She knew that for certain when the woman from before gripped her wrist and said, “Follow,” so fiercely that she actually did.
Her steps echoed through the empty hall. His were almost silent in front of her. All she saw was his back. Her own shoulders were small—tiny slopes.
His were wide cliffs.
He had perfect posture. The posture of a warrior. She swallowed. How many thousands had he single-handedly taken down? Even in her glass room, she had heard whispers about his malice. Some Nightshades could kill with a single touch—wasn’t that the rumor?
A shiver worked its way down her spine . . . and turned into a pit in her stomach when he led her into a dark room.
Was this where she would be executed?
She tugged her dress up while his back was still turned and risked a look at her portaling device. It was still dark, lifeless.
No.
Isla needed a plan.
The voices in her head crowded, wicked, quick to attack. What plan could she possibly come up with to have a chance against him?
She was a fool. A powerless fool.
The door closed behind her, and she jumped.
The ruler of Nightshade—Grimshaw—turned to face her. He looked her over quickly. Was he sizing her up? Deciding how he would make her suffer?
She swallowed. Took a step back.
He lunged for her.
Isla should have grabbed her dagger, but she was more shocked than she had ever been in her life, so she froze.
Froze as he pressed her against the wall, and—
He . . . he lowered his face until his lips were mere inches from hers. His eyes were hungry, full of desire. He wanted to kiss her. That didn’t make any sense.
Suddenly, all the pieces came together. Why the women in line looked so excited. Why they were speaking of hoping to be chosen. Becoming part of the ruling line. They had all clearly volunteered to be presented in front of the Nightshade ruler. He thought she wanted this. He thought she had signed up for this.
He didn’t know who she was.
She could have pushed him away. Told him the truth. But she didn’t. She was a fool. That had already been established, hadn’t it? Her entire life, she had been locked up. She had never been this close to a man before. She had never felt this way before.
His hands, so large, so callused, gripping her so strangely. His height. His eyes, dark and gleaming. Hungry. His hard body, pressed against hers, his muscles and her curves lining up so naturally. Those seemingly unimportant things—much less important than who he was, and what kind of weapons were inches away from her—became all she could think of. She went very still.
For a moment, she forgot herself. And him. She forgot everything she had ever been taught.
“Is this okay?” he asked, looking down at her. He was leaning lower, his breath grazing her lips. A shiver worked its way down her spine.
This was her chance to say no. Instead, she found herself saying, “Yes.” And meaning it.
Then, his lips were on hers.
Isla had never been kissed. Didn’t want to be kissed by her enemy, her rival, the filthy, deadly—surprisingly attractive—Nightshade. Then why had she said yes? She should push him, say something, but his lips were a key, unlocking things she had never felt. Heat, pulsing everywhere. Sparks, dancing across her skin, as his thumb pressed against the palm he held against the wall. As his teeth skimmed her lips, as his lips dipped down her neck . . .
She kissed him back. She held him just as tightly as he held her.
Her hands ran through his hair, and it was so much softer than she would have imagined. She felt her way down his neck, his chest, and he felt hard and cold as stone. His tongue swiped against the hollow of her throat, and she made a sound that shocked her.
Sensing her excitement, he made some sort of growl and hauled her up, against the wall, as her legs locked around his middle. She gasped, because in this position, she could feel him . . . all of him. Right against her. Right against her—
All at once, she remembered herself.
Remembered who he was, how she needed to get out of there now.
He was her enemy. The moment he found out who she was, he would hurt her. This could be a trick. Surely, he was going to attack her at any moment.
She needed to strike first.
Just as he deepened their kiss, she grabbed her dagger from where it was holstered on her thigh. Gripped its hilt.
And stabbed him through the chest.
There was a moment of quiet. The Nightshade ruler met her eyes, right before his chin dipped, and he slowly looked down to his chest, where the dagger still stuck out, inches from his heart.
Then, he released her.
There was no time. No time to turn around, to check if the warmth across the front of her body was shame or fear or his blood.
She ran out the door, grabbed her starstick, which somehow, mercifully, now glowed.
She drew her puddle of stars—
And was gone.
