The Heir: A Snow White Retelling (The Twisted Kingdoms Book 3)

by Frost Kay

  With one last baleful glance Tempest’s way, Merjeri gathered his soldiers and retreated into the night like the rubbish they were. Pyre leaned against the unscathed building behind him, the night chill seeping through his cloak, and observed as the Hounds began helping the now-homeless people down the road toward temporary accommodations. Brine caught his eye from across the square and nodded. It was time to go. They’d done all they could here. He’d have Nyx arrange supplies for the people.

  Pyre glanced toward Tempest as she scanned the people who were still lingering in the village square. He knew the moment she spotted Brine: her whole face blanked. He had to hand it to her, she really missed nothing. He dipped his hat at her and then walked away from the wall, swiftly turning the nearest corner to hide in a darkened alley. Skirting around abandoned barrels and ice patches, Pyre moved deeper into the darkness. He pushed through linen hanging from a nearby line and waited.

  Soft footsteps reached his ears before Tempest lifted the hanging laundry, and paused, eyeing him, her fingers curling around the sheet as if she couldn’t decide if she wanted to take one more step or retreat.

  “You just going to stand there all night?” he drawled. He took a shallow breath and almost cursed. Even through the acrid scent of smoke and ash, her scent teased the air. His gut tightened, and his mouth watered. Even filthy, she was the best thing he’d ever inhaled.

  “Are you mad?” she hissed, glancing behind her once before completely stepping through the laundry line. The linen flapped closed behind her, leaving them in a cocoon all of their own. “Do you understand how dangerous it is for you to be here? If someone identified you, the Hounds would have no choice but to—”

  His heart stuttered as he picked up on something within her scent. Worry. She was actually worried for him. “Worried about me, love? I’m flattered.” He regretted the sarcasm lacing his words immediately. He needed to do better. Sharp words never won anyone over.

  Tempest flinched but then bristled. “I’m worried for our cause. Your presence jeopardizes everything. It’s foolish for you to be here. You need to leave before you’re discovered.”

  He hummed, his senses assessing her for injuries. He couldn’t smell any blood, but from the raspy quality of her voice, he knew she’d taken in too much ash. “You need to use some medicinal smoke to open up your airways.”

  She blinked at him before looking away, her lips pursed. “I’ll be fine. Plus, my health is not your concern.”

  But he wanted it to be. Her life meant more to him than it should. Even filthy and ragged, she was still the most glorious thing he’d ever beheld. Pyre found himself taking one step forward. All he wanted to do was kiss her frown away. Hell, just hold her for a moment and breathe her scent in.

  She’s marrying the king.

  That thought alone sobered him. He’d never been one to go after another man’s woman.

  But she’s mine.

  Pyre swallowed hard and buried his feelings. They wouldn’t do either of them any good. Tempest had made her decision, and it would benefit the rebellion. Having someone with a position of influence right beside King Destin was a huge win for the Dark Court and the Talagan people. And if the king just so happened to die… Well, then all Pyre had to do was be patient.

  He will still touch what is yours.

  That wasn’t a thought Pyre could afford to dwell on. If he did, he’d do something stupid like kidnap Tempest and tie her to his bed until she agreed to be only his.

  He wiped a hand down his gritty face. This was not what he should be thinking about. She was a bloody distraction he couldn’t afford.

  “Why are you here, Jester?” she demanded, breaking the silence.

  The use of his title cut through his emotions and helped him to focus. “I’m sure you’ve heard whispers of Lord Merjeri’s goings-on?”

  “I have,” she said lowly, her nose wrinkling. “A charming man to be sure.”

  “Indeed,” Pyre said with false sweetness. “The lord is particularly harsh on his slaves and workers.” He leaned against the stone wall and tilted his head upward, eyeing the smoke and soot that blanketed the sky. “Recently, a rebel group has cropped up here that truly believes shifters are supposed to rule and that the human race should be subservient to them—their slaves.”

  “How original,” she muttered.

  “Extremists, of course,” Pyre continued. “We do not endorse them. That’s why my men and I are here. We can’t allow this to continue. The violence has to stop.”

  Temp snorted. “So, it’s okay for you to cause violence and bloodshed, but not if someone else does? Sounds a bit hypocritical, if you ask me.”

  That was harsh, but not completely untrue. He ignored her comment. They could argue over morals another time. “Radical dissentions like this will keep the Talagan people weak,” he said. “I don’t desire to see anyone hurt, but I won’t stand by and allow senseless violence to happen when I can prevent it.”

  She opened her lips to reply and wheezed. Quickly, she held a hand to her mouth and coughed, then hacked again and again and again, each one progressively harder and harsher than the one before.

  Concern overtook him, and he closed the distance between them. He rubbed a hand against her back in soothing motions as she tried to catch her breath.

  “You’re okay,” he crooned, running a hand down her sooty braid—the periwinklecolor looked gray.

  Tempest shrugged away from his touch, and Pyre clenched his fingers into a fist and pulled away. Rejection and anger churned in his gut.

  “Just wanted to help,” he bit out.

  “Didn’t ask for it,” she wheezed.

  “Because the high and mighty Lady Hound needs no help,” he retorted. Why did she have to be so difficult?

  “Not from you. All I want from you is the support of the Dark Court.”

  She glanced up at him and squinted. He schooled his expression when she softened just the smallest bit.

  “I really am fine,” she croaked. “Are you telling me that I just saved a bunch of murderers and arsonists, then?” She braced her hands on her knees and slowly straightened.

  She licked her chapped lips; the bottom one was more swollen. He wanted to bite it. He blinked and tried to pay attention to her next words.

  “Because we didn’t kill many of the shifters. We—”

  “No, you did the right thing,” he assured her. “Most of the people here are completely innocent or had no choice but to go along with the whims of the extremists for fear of their own life. Limiting casualties was the correct thing to do.” He sighed heavily, pinching his nose and twitching his fox ears beneath his hat. He was desperate to free them of the wide-brimmed thing. It was itchier than the devil. “We need to talk, Tempest.”

  “We are talking right now.”

  Pyre chuckled darkly. “You know what I mean. There are some things we need to discuss before anything moves forward.”

  “Now is not the time.” She coughed. “And my throat hurts too much.”

  “I don’t want you to talk. I want you to listen,” he said, and she glared at him, but he continued. “I did not have the Crown prince killed.”

  She stilled, her gaze locked on his. “Don’t you lie to me. I know what I saw.”

  “Do you?” he asked softly.

  “They were Talagans, Pyre.”

  “I’m not responsible for every shifter who does something wrong.”

  “You sure act like you are,” she retorted.

  “They were hired mercenaries,” he added. “Chesh traced their origins back to Dotae.” His ears picked up Chesh’s languid strides moving down the alley, and he noticed Tempest straighten. “But we can pick up this conversation later. Your men will be looking for you. I’ll send for you soon.”

  She rolled her eyes, an act that was both endearing and irritating beyond belief to witness. “I’m under too much scrutiny to be scampering off to you, Pyre,” she bit out. “You need to come to me or send someone i
n your stead if you wish to continue this conversation. It is dangerous enough for me to be speaking to you here.”

  She was not wrong, but the wedding was in just a few weeks. They had little time to put everything in place.

  “Fine,” he relented. “I shall come to you.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?” she mumbled.

  “There are some things you have to do yourself. Happy?”

  The barest of nods was all the reply she gave him before she strode toward the laundry. She lifted the sheet and startled. Pyre saw Chesh tip the brim of his hat up and wiggle his brows at her.

  “How good to see you,” the cat murmured.

  Pyre clenched his jaw as Chesh bent and rubbed his cheek against Tempest’s temple.

  “Ew,” she complained, pushing the cat away. “Your beard is scratchy.”

  Chesh gasped and ran a hand along his bristly jaw. “I’ve been assured the ladies adore it.”

  “I’m not one of your ladies.” Tempest took two steps, as if to leave, but then she halted, her spine straightening. “I’m sorry, Pyre.”

  Pyre frowned. That was not what he was expecting. “For?”

  She sighed and stiffly glanced over her shoulder. “I’ve been too judgmental of you. I’ll try to be more open-minded—but make no mistake. I’ll be double-checking your story about the mercenaries.”

  She disappeared behind the swaying linen before he could respond. What had brought about that change of heart? She’d basically condemned him to be the lowest of the low the last time she’d seen him. Tempest was a prideful creature, and for her to apologize meant something.

  Chesh grinned. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “What?” Pyre asked.

  “The prowess to lure your female back to you.”

  He narrowed his eyes and growled. “Next time, keep your filthy paws off her.”

  Chesh winked. “We’ll see.”

  Five

  Tempest

  There was no amount of soap or perfume that could fully eliminate the stench of smoke from Tempest’s nose. She was certain her skin still smelled of it, too, despite the brand-new gown she was now dressed in for her betrothal ceremony to King Destin.

  The celebration was in full swing. Lords, ladies, and aristocrats surrounded her. She took a sip of her wine and nodded vaguely when a woman she hardly knew tried to draw her into the conversation. Tempest scanned the room, noting the Hounds littered amongst the aristocracy. Madrid managed to catch her eye, and he gave her a small smile of encouragement—well, calling it a smile was generous. It was barely a curling of the corners of his lips. She lifted her goblet and went back to watching the merriment around her. The memory of her uncles’ conversation was still at the forefront of her mind.

  It made sense that her uncles knew more about her mother’s death than they had originally let on. Trust was already thin between them and her these days, and this was the icing on the top of the cake. Tempest set aside her anger and tried to look at the situation logically. They must have had a very good reason to keep her in the dark. They loved her.

  She took another sip of her drink and smiled at the balding man next to her who kept gesturing wildly, while her mind tried to unravel what her uncles had been speaking about. What were the facts? A shifter had hurt her mum and abandoned Temp in a burning home. The Hounds had retrieved her from the mountain village, and she’d become a ward of the Crown. ‘Owned’ was a more fitting word. Every child of the Madrid line belonged to the king.

  Her gaze moved toward the new Crown prince, Maven, who had women and men fawning about him. He reminded her of his father. They had the same oily presence. Destin wasn’t to be trifled with. Anyone who struck at him was hit back twice as hard. Maybe she’d been looking at this wrongly the whole time. Her mum should have been part of the king’s court, and, yet, she was a lass from the mountains. Tempest should have grown up in the city, and, yet, she’d never seen another person other than her mum until she was five years old.

  Your mum could have run away with you.

  She brushed aside that idea. While she couldn’t remember her father’s face, she remembered periwinkle hair. The Hound that had fathered Tempest had known about her birth and kept them secluded in the mountains.

  They were protecting you.

  Her hands shook as she turned away from the Crown prince and stared up at the dais where the king’s throne stood, proud and majestic. One of the Hounds had dared to steal from the king. Whichever one of her uncles was her sire hadn’t wanted this life for her. She took a heavy gulp of her wine, feeling slightly hollow. Her parents had wanted freedom for her, and she’d ended up in the devil’s lair anyway. What would her mother say if she could see Tempest now? And her father?

  She examined the room, her gaze touching on each Hound old enough to be her father. She’d always wondered who it might be, but it hadn’t bothered her since she was raised by so many uncles. It was like having a whole battalion of fathers. But now… This changed things. Did her sire rage against how it all turned out? She was marrying the king, after all, and that king was a despot. Her life was veritably in the king’s hands.

  She couldn’t imagine her father had ever wanted that for her.

  All she wanted to do was question her uncles to unravel the mystery of her birth, but before that…she had a job to do. Countless lives depended on her playing the part of King Destin’s queen, and despite the forces that put her in the deranged king’s path, she would damned well play this right. Once her position was secure, she’d ferret out the truth.

  She chuckled at a lame joke the old man recited, and scanned the room again out of habit. Many flicked looks her way—some in greed, some in malice, some in pity, and others in jealousy. The king still hadn’t made an appearance, even though it was his betrothal celebration. He was usually late, but this was taking things a bit far, even by his own standards; most people had been waiting over an hour for his arrival. Some men and women had already managed to get too deep in their cups before their king had even arrived.

  And they said the upper echelon had more class. Well, these people were drunk before their sovereign had even arrived. Not that it bothered her too much. The less she saw of the king, the better. It was difficult to feign interest in a man she loathed and had no respect for.

  All in good time.

  She liked to imagine that, in time, a good and fair ruler would ascend the throne whom she could respect, and that then the highborn would learn some manners.

  A pig cannot be anything other than a pig.

  She smirked and batted her lashes at the man across from her before glancing toward Maven who was watching his companions like a land shark. The former Crown prince hadn’t been a good man, but he’d been better than the sadist his younger brother was. A twinge of grief filled her heart at the thought of the Crown prince’s death. It felt like years ago, but it was in fact a scant two weeks prior. Blain hadn’t deserved to die, no matter how useless he was.

  The heir caught her attention, excused himself from his company, and crept across the marble floor toward her. It bothered her. Maven didn’t prowl like his father. A lion, she could anticipate. He was too unassuming; even as he wound around the upper class, the prince seemed almost invisible to the eye. The highborn men barely paid him any mind, despite the fact he was their future king. It was a skill Tempest was more familiar witnessing from the members of the Dark Court. It made the prince feel dishonest. Scheming.

  Untrustworthy.

  He moved and acted like a viper. It was only a matter of time before he struck at her.

  She locked away her dislike of him and arranged a placid smile on her face when the prince finally arrived at her side. The older countess fluttered her fan, and smiled at the prince.

  “Your Royal Highness,” Tempest said, curtsying slightly. The aristocrats around her followed suit. “A pleasure.” A lie.

  He smiled. “The pleasure is all mine.” Another lie.

&n
bsp; “Any update on what is holding your father up?” she asked lightly. “The wine will soon be gone at this rate.” The women tittered, hiding their smiles behind fans covered in too many ribbons and lace.

  The prince shrugged, the impassive look on his face never slipping. “My father does as he pleases. You and I both know this.” A slimy smirk played across his lips that Tempest did not like at all. “I must say, Lady Tempest, I do look forward to calling you Mother in the days to come.”

  Tempest resisted a shiver. The comment was made in a jesting manner, but he said it as if he meant it, sincerity ringing in every word.

  “You’re a good boy,” the countess praised, her reedy voice syrupy sweet.

  “I try, my lady. I am the lucky one to gain such a mother,” he all but crooned. No animosity colored the prince’s voice, nor any derision or sarcasm. It was spoken as if it was an entirely genuine sentiment. That’s why he was dangerous. He spun lies like sugar. He may even believe his own lies.

  You need to tread carefully.

  “I am so very honored to be welcomed into your family,” Tempest murmured, the words tasting sour.

  The familiar scent of jasmine wafted in Tempest’s direction right before the princess arrived to her left, sweeping into the conversation with grace.

  “I’ve been surrounded by men my whole life. What a treasure Lady Tempest is to have in our home. Now, I will have someone to discuss the latest fashions with!”

  “Princess Ansette,” Tempest said with a genuine smile. The girl knew the perfect time to intercept. “How are you this evening?”

  “Oh, you know, enjoying the lovely celebration.” Ansette wrapped her hand in the crook of Tempest’s elbow. “If you’ll excuse us, we must see to the other guests.” She waved a finger at her brother. “We can’t keep our Lady Hound to ourselves.”

  Tempest sighed as the princess steered her away from the new Crown prince. Still, she swore she could feel his gaze between her shoulder blades. “Thank you.”