Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 137958 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137958 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“This is true,” my mother murmured.
“And she may be legend, and this might not be something she desires for herself, but I have seen her disappointment that she consistently disappoints me,” my father continued. But this was not true. My disappointment was that he disappointed me. “She will be glad of this match. She will be glad she has something important to do. She will be glad she’s of service to her parents, her country, her continent. She will do her duty, my dearest. And in however way it comes about, in the end, it will be fine.”
To that, my mother whispered something even I could not hear, and I sensed their discussion was ending.
Therefore, I scanned the corridor with eyes and ears before I released my shadow, stepped out of the recess and my inanimate (which was often how I preferred it) company of the bust, and hurried along the hall toward the stairs to get to my rooms.
I did this not sharing my father’s sentiments.
First, the Beast was rising and that took more than a few moments of reflection.
I’d heard tales of the Beast as far back as I could cogitate, these coming from my nanny (who was a harridan, for what nanny would share such stories with a wee child? I remembered being very happy when my mother sacked her, and I fancied myself kind-hearted, but I was not sorry to see her go). And then spoken of freely around fires for no purpose but for the teller to spook the listeners.
But such tales always ended with the fact the Beast would someday again be roused. He would rise. And he would feast on wee children and snack on the babes and tear the women asunder with his horrifying shaft and rip the heads from the men, drinking their blood from their necks and making the women weave the hair together so he could wear them as a necklace.
Larger than a gogmagog by thrice, faster on foot than an eagle in flight, able to spew venom from his mouth—venom that with a single drop touching the skin could stun entire villages into immobility for days, beings wasting away from no food or water, unable to save themselves, frozen in the poison as still as statutes.
His rising was not to be borne.
And apparently, I somehow played some part in stopping it.
Which, frankly, scared the knickers off me.
Far more than being wed to the barbarian King Mars of Firenze.
But it must be said, if not equally as terrifying (for nothing was as frightening as the Beast), it was still bloody terrifying.
I did not want to be legend.
I didn’t like any attention a’tall.
It seemed I had no choice in that.
Worse, the king of a neighboring country who evidently didn’t exactly get along with my king (it must be said, King Wilmer did some rash things, he truly needed new counsel, I knew that even before True shared with me his (vast) frustrations about this very topic) had no choice in it either.
This absolutely did not bode good tidings.
What was worse, when I entered my bedchamber, I saw Tril standing there, her pretty face pale, her chignon at the back of her head coming loose like she’d been worrying it, and her mouth instantly moved.
“I’ve had orders from your father. I’m so very sorry, but we need to make haste in a wedding trousseau, my lovely. I’ll explain on our way, but we must needs get to town. We have lace, satin and velvet to look at and it will take far less time for us to go to them than for me to summon them to us.”
I stared into her charming, but anxious, hazel eyes.
Balls.
And bloody begorrah.
5
The Damned
King Aramus Nereus
Throne Room, Keel Castle, Nautilus
MAR-EL
Aramus felt like a bloody damned fool sitting on his ridiculous throne.
He never sat his throne.
If he was not on his ship, marauding, or hunting, he was in a pub, drinking, or at a table, feasting, or at a wench, doing other things.
And it didn’t help that his men stood around the foot of it—or the eight-foot high sirens-damned pedestal of the thing—bloody snickering.
“Be gone,” he ordered.
“And miss this?” his man Bondi asked.
Fuck, but if he relished the idea of marking his wife’s perfect skin, something he did not, he’d have the bitch brought up, tied to the pedestal under his ludicrous throne and order her flogged.
“Cap, not sure it’s a good idea to sit your throne,” Tintagel called up to his seat. “Also not sure I need to remind you she’s not cowed by authority.”
Ha-Lah was not cowed by anything.
At first, he liked this about his wife.
Being married to the bloody woman for six months and not even tasting her cunt with his tongue, not feeling its wet even on the tip of a finger, this feeling was waning.