Page 4 of The Kraken Bride

Ash and embers.

One by one, the other ambassadors went in confident and emerged sick.

Finally, I was the only one left. Then came the words I both dreaded and anticipated. “Dragon, you’re up.”

I smoothed my gown once more and reset my balance. This meeting would be a performance like any other. A dance from the opening step to the final bow. I might even walk out with the answer I desperately craved.

Find the rhythm. Keep the count. I glided forward, shoulders back, chin up. Always give them a grand entrance.

“Princess Bronwyn Drachenveil the Graceborn, Pirouette Princess, Queen of Ice, Swan of Ashmorra and Mistress of Motion,” the herald announced. My cheeks warmed as he listed the silly titles bestowed by fans. “Sister of Olyssa Drachenveil, Queen of Dragons.”

“Just Ambassador Bronwyn,” I muttered. Royal titles were supposed to be suspended during the years of contracted service.

The doors shut behind me without a word from the herald.

Message received. I would be called whatever the kraken wanted to call me.

I continued forward, focusing on the chamber—and my breathing—before daring a glance at the king. The throne room loomed like a cathedral of the sea. Arched ceilings of glass revealed dark waters overhead. Columns of petrified coral lined the walls, saturating the air with the scent of salt and seablooms. Mother-of-pearl inlaid the floor in swirling patterns that glimmered with each flicker of light.

My sister Adelaide, chief spy of Ashmorra, had made me memorize crucial rules for surveillance and shadow work while residing in the kraken court.

The first, meant to be all-encompassing for my stay? When people think you’re harmless, they will tell you things. You’re a ballerina, Bronwyn. Half the kingdom already assumes your head is full of twirls and ribbons. Use it. Don’t correct them, even when pride wants you to.

But the one that mattered most now: Scan for exits without looking like you’re scanning for exits. Every ballroom, throne room, and library you’re not supposed to be in has hidden ways out. Know them before you need them.

I traced my gaze over every door, filing away their locations, even as my mind whirled. He and his people were said to view fated bonds as liabilities. A weakness to avoid at all costs. The complete opposite of dragons, who prized their soulmates. Which was reason eighteen of ten thousand why I fervently hoped Sebastian Mórisi wasn’t mine.

Whatever you do, don’t throw up.

Finally, I did it. I looked. And promptly lost my breath. Beautiful in a way that defied reason, the king lounged upon a throne of bones and scorched coral, the seat studded with glittering, bejeweled barnacles. Light from the sea-glass lanterns scattered across his skin, giving it a pearlescent sheen. His hair, black as the deep, caught streaks of iridescence, as though kissed by moonlight.

I’d thought he resembled a romance novel hero before; now I was sure of it. Too beautiful for anyone’s good. Least of all mine.

He wore black and tide-colored fabrics that clung like both water and armor. Once again, gloves covered his hands.

Lightning zinged beneath the surface of my skin as I halted at the base of the royal dais. Forcing my arms behind my back, I breathed deeply and met his gaze.

Scorch my scales. His irises. They shimmered in starburst patterns, shifting colors like the ocean itself. From stormy sapphire to emerald-gold to fathomless onyx.

Heat pulsed over me. For one dizzying heartbeat, the throne room lurched. The polished floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet, my stomach dropping as though I’d stepped onto the deck of a ship in rough seas. Then the sensation vanished when my dragon unfurled her wings inside my mind, bringing balance. Thankfully, I wasn’t nauseated. Nein, far from it. I couldn’t look away from the man.

Calculation flickered in his gaze, as though he’d reached for a blade and found it missing. Did he purposely use his eyes, turning it on and off?

Had it just failed to work on me?

He didn’t speak. Never blinked. Just canted his head and gave me a slow once-over. Appraising. Dangerous. Glittering. Silence stretched until my pulse drummed a war beat against my ribs. Then something like recognition flickered in his gaze. Just for a moment, ja, but definitely there. I gulped. I’d performed before dragons countless times, but never, never had I felt an audience member strip me bare with a single look.

Perhaps I should ask to serve my ambassadorship from a lighthouse above the waves, far from him.

“Do you intend to properly greet the king holding your future in his hands,” he finally asked in his native Icelandic, “or stand there trembling until you fall?”

First of all, I absolutely was not trembling. Not anymore. Second, his voice rolled over me like a dark tide. Third, my training took over. I offered a flawless, controlled curtsy. “Your majesty,” I greeted in the same language. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Officially.”

Far from impressed, he rested his elbow on the arm of the throne. “You are the dancer,” he said. “The one rumored to bespell legions with every performance.”

“I am a dancer, ja,” I managed, pretending he hadn’t mentioned the ridiculous rumor I’d fought to quash for years. “Or I was, before I became an ambassador.”

“A transformation with no obvious motive.” He stroked his jaw, locks of his hair sliding through shades of moonlight. “Tell me. Are you being punished? Did you disobey a royal command? Fall in love with the wrong man?” French now. “Or did you wish to be closer to me, after your ravenous gaze devoured me during the meeting of royals?” Ancient Norse, as old as the tides.