Page 56 of Fated to the Wicked King

I tensed in my stance.

His emotions brushed against my heightened senses—wariness held tight beneath discipline, protectiveness warming when he looked into my eyes, and a notion he was debating whether or not to conceal.

I took a step back—wrong move⁠—

Behind me, a rough hand shot out from the shadow of a doorway, yanking me backward against a hard chest.

I yelped as I struggled to pull away, only to gasp, every muscle locking, when a knife flashed cold against my throat.

Oh shoot.

Gregory’s eyes were wide in shock. Stopping several paces away, his hand hovered near his sword.

“Your Highness,” the villager greeted, low and hoarse. He smelled of sweat, damp wool, and malice. His grip cinched tighter around my waist, binding my arms to my sides, as he dragged me another step back, the blade pressing down just enough to sting.

Gregory put his hands up, his eyes never leaving the knife at my throat. “Sir, I think it would be in your best interests to let the lady go right now.”

The wind moved between us, carrying the sharp scent of frost and smoke, while Gregory met the man’s gaze with a calm that felt deliberate, patient, as though he meant to talk this madness down rather than force it.

The man chuckled, walking us backward toward a snow-covered warehouse. He banged his elbow against the large, heavy door. “On the contrary, Your Highness, I think it would be in your best interest to walk away.”

As the door slid open, he dragged me past the doorway. The warehouse, no warmer than outside, was dimly lit, and looked empty at first.

Suddenly, trapdoors burst open beneath piles of straw. False walls swung outward. More figures than seemed possible in the available space lunged out from behind stacked barrels and from the loft above, dropping into the warehouse, their faces gaunt and fever-bright, their hands clutching whatever weapons they could wield—pickaxes with splintered shafts, rusted swords, heavy sticks studded with nails, lengths of chain that swung in vicious arcs.

And in the center of the warehouse, a fantastical contraption sat on the hay-covered floor, its otherworldly glow casting eerie shadows across the walls.

Gregory’s mouth was still open, but he blinked quickly to recover. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. “Let the lady go. That is an order from your prince.”

“I’m awfully sorry, Your Highness, but we no longer answer to you.” The man gave a signaling nod to another villager, who approached the machine and flicked a few switches.

The machine released a hiss of steam and settled into a constant hum. The metal gears inside clicked once, then again. It was warming up.

Gregory’s eyebrow rose. “Who exactly do you answer to now?”

“Well, that there’s a secret,” the man replied, tugging me back again as if to elicit another yelp. “Just leave the girl with us. She’s not of Lucerne. She’s not even from this world at all.”

Eighteen

OTHERNESS

No.

What?

How could this man have possibly known that?

Gregory was visibly overwhelmed. “What on Wünder are you even talking about?”

The rogue’s triumph over my capture overwhelmed his other intentions. “It’s nothing you ought to be concerned about, Your Highness. All you need to know is that we have to take her away now.”

“Are you sure it’s her, Tannis?” one of the other villagers asked.

Tannis. He was one of the men who had abducted me the other day.

Swallowing hard, I tried to turn to see his face, but the angle in which he gripped me strained my movement. I supposed it was nearly impossible for me to recognize him anyway, since I couldn’t even remember anything from my real life.

Did I know this man before? Was he from my world too? Was anyone else from my world here?