Page 51 of White Raven

His head snapped to me, his shoulders rising like a fortress. The weight of saying his name felt heavy on my tongue, bearing down on my chest. It created a thread of familiarity between us.

It made him real.

Feeling my blunder, I wanted to reel it back down my throat, never letting the sound infiltrate my mind. But it was too late. It was there, staking claim in the space between us.

“Never say that again.” He bent toward me, his expression hard, his voice threatening. “Wrennlyn.” My name came out in a low rumble. The power of it drove into the base of my spine.

“Eat,” he ordered, then got up from the table and strode away, heading for where I saw Frida and another older woman.

Humiliation and revulsion flushed up to my cheeks, quickly discounting and shoving out my thoughts, turning my complete focus to the food.

I was tired, stressed, and traumatized.

The need to get home watered my eyes, the severe headache of missing my family. My father, my handmaidens . . . even Linnea. I wanted to return to my life before Sarina’s murder. Before I was taken.

Remember that, Wren. Don’t forget who he is. What he has done.

A buzzing still echoed through me as I absently stared at the cooling porridge. My stomach winning out, I scooped more into my mouth, repeating to myself that I would not let the chance to kill him pass me again.

CHAPTER 12

The stairs creaked noisily, the weary wood resenting every step on its old bones as we ascended to the second floor. The oil lamp Frida held scarcely cut through the shadows, our misshapen silhouettes bouncing off the windowless walls. Even though the air was slightly more temperate here, the darkness crept into my bones with a chill, warning me how far I was away from home, and how close I was to the Night Realm. Or maybe it was the frosty aura surrounding me.

Frida led the way up to a room, while her ex-lover stayed close on my heels, sticking me in the middle like a buffer.

Her rigid shoulders and curt responses screamed her discontentment and hurt, her expression straining when she opened the door to the room, ushering us in, seeing me as the one filling his bed tonight and not her.

I wanted to scream it wasn’t like that that I was his prisoner. If anything, I’d love for her to distract him, take his attention away while I made a run for it. What if the king already had men here on the lookout for me? Were any of the Day Ravens downstairs spies of my father’s?

“There is water in the pitcher.” Frida’s strained voice cut through my thoughts. She lit an oil lamp on a table under the window, flickering a glow into the small room. She nodded to a bowl and jug on the nightstand next to the bed. “The toilet chamber is down the hall.”

A decrepit wood-framed bed, half the size of the one I had slept on at home, was tucked into the corner with a nightstand and covered with threadbare blankets the color of muck. There was a writing table under the window facing the street below, and an unlit fireplace on the opposite wall of the bed.

“If you need anything else . . .” Every word was strained.

“No.” The Northerner she called Onyx shook his head. “We are good.”

She dipped her head, her mouth pursing, hurt bleeding into her eyes. She cleared her throat taking the coins he offered her, and hurried out of the room, slamming the door.

Tension crawled in after she departed, the noise from below hardly muffled through the thin floors. He strolled over to the table under the window.

“If you missed the hint . . .” I broke the silence. “She wanted to bed you again.”

He set down the saddlebags, ignoring me.

“She thinks you’re here with me.” I made a face. “Probably want to let her know that is not the case at all.”

His muteness had me shifting on my feet, filling the silence.

“If you want to go—” I motioned for the door. “By no means do I want to be the one who stands in your way.”

His glower shot over to me again, a huff under his breath. He reached up, yanking the linen curtain from the rod. Surprise slammed my mouth shut, my brows furrowing as I watched him shred the curtain into strips.

“What are you do—” I stumbled back, his powerful build coming for me, a hand latching onto my arm. “Do-ing?”

A roguish smile hinted on his lips as he wrapped the fabric around my wrists.

“No,” I croaked, my heart speeding up, trying to jerk from his grip. Cinching down, the fabric pinned my palms together until my bones ached. “Please.”