The scales rippling down the king’s arms are bone white, yet they glisten like pearls, and for a moment, I’m transfixed by their startling beauty.
Then the king leaps.
I suppose he flings the blankets off first, of course. He might even crouch to gather his muscles or glance over the bed to gauge the distance from him to Abely’s huddled form. I don’t see any of that. There’s only a snarling blur passing over me, followed by a hiss from my cat friend at being disturbed.
I yelp as the king’s feet hit the floor like a thunderclap.
“You knew the risks,” he says, his voice dangerously low. My heart leaps to my throat at the sound of it.
The risks of what? Failing? Not preparing me adequately?
Abely, sweat coursing down his upturned face, cowers. “I did, Your Majesty. I did not think the effects would be so extreme. I let my guard down.”
“We are dragons. We cannot afford to let our guard down.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Something about Abely’s obsequiousness seems to enrage the king even further. He begins prowling back and forth like a caged animal, scales rising along his shoulders now. I startle as his flaming eyes cut to me, as they skip from my face to the jewel still at my throat.
Under the weight of that stare, I fight not to cower myself.
Flinging his gaze away, the king whirls on Abely. “Look at what you’ve done,” he roars, thrusting a finger my way.
Minister Abely eyes lift in jerky motions to take me in as the king did—face first, then jewel. His own face blanches.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, pity in his look, not for me but for the king. “I’m so sorry.”
Chills skitter across my skin at the sound of the king’s laugh. It’s no longer human.
“Sorry?” he says in a voice that rattles the windows. “You will be.”
Spines assemble down his back; his horns lengthen. He is going to transform right here in my bedchamber. Abely only lowers his head, a strange stillness overcoming him. That’s when I remember the exact phrasing of the king’s threat last night.
“I’ll bite off his head for this.”
Oh no.
I’m frozen in place. My cat friend, unbothered by the prospect of a man being beheaded, lifts a leg to lick his toes. Surely, someone will knock at the door any second. The long awaited breakfast will come. Someone will arrive to say, “Sir, you cannot bite a man’s head off in your betrothed’s room. Truly, you cannot bite a man’s head off at all.”
That’s what I tell myself as the king’s shadow stretches long. I tell myself that till I can’t anymore.
Then I leap.
Tumble is probably the better word for what I do. My foot catches in the sheets, and I nearly fall on my face before scrambling up, lunging in front of Abely, and throwing my arms out.
“Stop,” I say, and that’s all, because I can’t think of anything else. All words vanish from my mind as I look at the king.
Scales run from temple to jawline, and his pupils have narrowed to black slits amidst the flames. The horns are far too long, and the twin points of his upper canines dimple his lips. I can’t decide if I’m looking at a beast trapped in a man’s body or a man trapped in a beast’s.
I shudder.
The king doesn’t say anything, but the breath he drags in through his nostrils is loud enough to echo throughout the room.
“Move,” he grates out.
I shake my head.
His dark gaze travels down my neck to rest once again on the blue starburst glittering there. Perhaps he regrets giving me such a gift? Perhaps he wants it back? I’d happily do so to end this.
His eyes fall lower and then glance away, jaw hardening.
I stiffen as he spins around, stalks to the other side of the bed, and veers into the dressing room. When he emerges, he storms his way back with something balled in his fist, his gaze somehow even angrier. He stops mere feet from me. Fast as a whip, his hand lashes out.
I flinch.
A beat of utter silence follows. When no blow lands, I open my eyes to find round pupils staring back at me out of a scaleless face.
A scaleless, stricken face.
For several seconds, we regard one another like that, our emotions bared out of sudden surprise. When he turns his attention to the object held out beneath my nose, I do the same. It’s a robe, a silk, lavender robe.
Only then do I remember the sheer nightgown Hiln, and her giggling girls, dressed me in. A deep blush blooms across my cheeks. I take the proffered robe and wrestle my arms in the sleeves, humiliation making me clumsy.
“Get out, Abely,” the king says, his words flat.
The minister scurries from the room. Only when the door latches and Abely’s panicked steps fade away does the king stride to a chair, snatch up the neatly folded shirt there, and exit the room himself.
I stand where I am, listening to the sound of my own breathing.
Someone raps at the servant’s door. When I answer, a young maid pokes her head through to beam at me.
“Would you like breakfast now, Your Highness?”
I can’t imagine eating right now.
“Yes,” I say, folding my hands in front of me. “I think I would.”