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

by Frost Kay

  Pyre lifted his head, tears burning in his eyes as his sister ran small strips of linen along the inside of Tempest’s cheeks. Nyx collected the strips and strode purposefully to the table and began mixing potions together in little cups before dropping the linen into each cup. She hissed and slammed her hand against the table, rattling the contents.

  “What is it?” he croaked.

  His sister turned to face him, her expression pinched. “Mimkia.”

  “You can fix it, right?” Mimkia poison was common.

  “You don’t understand,” she whispered. “It’s the poison the king used on the villages.”

  He flashed hot and cold. Nyx had been searching for an antidote since the beginning of ‘the plague.’ The people afflicted by the drug in the villages and towns throughout Heimserya and Talaga had been fed a diluted version of the drug: all the better to get them slowly addicted to it, even as their internal organs failed and they fell into a never-ending sleep. Everyone who drank the poison died.

  “No,” Pyre rasped. His lungs seized, and he couldn’t breathe. He stood there, frozen to the spot, until Briggs removed his shirt and began unlacing his trousers.

  Pyre lunged around the bed and grabbed the healer by the throat. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Briggs slowly placed a hand over Pyre’s. “She needs to be warmed up. Now that we know what the poison is, we can move forward. If you can control yourself, take your clothes off and get in the bed.”

  Pyre slowly pulled back, frowning at the small punctures around the healer’s neck. Then he fumbled with his clothes, fingers uncharacteristically clumsy. Pyre crawled into the bed with Tempest, wincing at how cold her skin was. It was as if she’d been carved from a block of ice. He moved her hair out of the way and wrapped himself around her. This was the second time within a month he’d found himself naked with his mate but not in the way that he wanted.

  Pyre shuddered and clutched her tighter, his ears focused on her labored breathing and slow heartbeat. Nyx and Briggs moved to the other side of the bed. They opened Tempest’s mouth and slowly fed her charcoal water.

  “I’ll head back to the capital,” Brine muttered, his back to them as he watched the flames. “Aleks created this abomination. He has the antidote.”

  “That will be two days journey round trip ,” Nyx said. “She’s progressed faster than anyone we’ve come across. The poison wasn’t diluted. Two days is too long.”

  Two days.

  Pyre pressed his face into the crook of Tempest’s neck and forced himself to take deep slow breaths. “What else can you do?”

  Nyx poured a few drops of the purple tincture between Tempest’s lips, followed by a bright yellow one that smelled sharp and astringent. “This should help with the fever, and the other will help keep her lungs open.”

  “And what of the poison?”

  She slowly met his gaze, her eyes filled with sorrow.

  He bared his teeth. “She’s not going to die. I won’t allow it.”

  “I don’t think… Pyre, I don’t think we have anything that’ll—”

  “Don’t you dare give up,” he growled. He tightened his arms around his mate and glared at Nyx. “There must be something you can try. Anything. You’re a poison mistress. Heal her!”

  His sister held his gaze and then walked around the bed. Glass bottles clinked together softly before his sister came back. She held a small bottle with inky liquid.

  “You’re out of your mind,” Briggs uttered in a low tone. “You’ll kill her.”

  Nyx ignored the healer and sat on the chair next to the bed. She held out the tincture. “This is Midnight Kiss.”

  Pyre glared. It was one of the deadliest poisons. It burned its victims from the inside out and caused their hearts to beat so fast that they exploded. Pyre opened his mouth, and she held up a hand.

  “You know I’ve studied both Midnight Kiss and Mimkia. The poison in Tempest will slow her bodily functions until her heart completely gives up. Midnight Kiss does the opposite. It accelerates the heart and heats the body up to ferocious temperatures.”

  “This is dangerous.” Briggs ran his hand over the top of his head. “But she’s dying, Pyre. It’s our only chance at counteracting the drug. The choice is up to you. You’re her mate.”

  Pyre lifted his head and gazed down at Tempest’s unconscious face. What would she want? He swallowed hard and pressed a kissed to her cheek. The Hound had never shied away from a challenge in her life.

  “Give it to her,” he murmured.

  Nyx carefully administered three drops of black liquid into Tempest’s mouth and then poured a little water between her lips.

  “How long will this take?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Leave,” Pyre whispered.

  Nyx, Briggs, and Swiftly all filed out of the large main room into a small room. Brine approached on the opposite side. The wolf bent at the waist and leaned his forehead against Tempest’s, a pained whine escaping him.

  “You are strong,” Brine growled. “You will not slip away in sleep. That is a cowardly way to die. You are a warrior. Fight, pup. Fight.”

  Pyre watch as his second then straightened up and followed the others into the adjacent room and closed the door behind him. He ignored their muffled voices and gently turned his mate in his arms. He gazed at her lifeless face. His heart broke.

  “I’ve been so stupid,” he whispered to her, his breath fanning onto her lips. He stroked her cheek, the wing of her eyebrow, and the slope of her nose. “If I’d only been honest with you from the very beginning… When you wake up, I will never leave your side again.” A tear tracked down his cheek. “You are mine, and I am yours.”

  He cupped her cheek and brushed his lips across hers.

  Pyre pulled back and settled Tempest against his chest. He counted each of her breaths and prayed that the next one wouldn’t be her last.

  Thirty-One

  Pyre

  “We have to leave. It’s been two days, Pyre. Damien is holding the line, but you are the leader. You must be there,” Nyx said, her tone brooking no argument.

  He nodded, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from Tempest’s pale face. “I know.”

  “We can leave her with the village healer—”

  “No. Where I go, she goes,” he cut her off brusquely. “Tempest can handle the journey, right?”

  “If she was going to die from the poison, it would have happened already,” Briggs said stoically. “She can travel, but you need to be mindful of her body heat. It would be easy for her to become too cold and for fluid to gather in her lungs.”

  “Brother,” Nyx began in a low tone.

  “Enough,” Pyre said and stood from the bed, the frame groaning. “She comes with me.” His attention turned to Brine who stood quietly in the corner, staring out the front window. “Brine.”

  The wolf eyed him. “Yes?”

  “Have Swiftly go ahead of us and make sure sleeping quarters are ready for Tempest when we arrive at the war camp. I don’t want her exposed to the elements any longer than need be.”

  “Consider it done,” Brine said softly before exiting the cottage, the door clattering shut behind him.

  Pyre looked at his sister. Her somber expression spelled mutiny. “Speak your mind, Nyx.”

  “I care for Tempest, but she is a distraction. Your focus should be on our people, our warriors, our cause.”

  “It is.”

  “Is it?” She arched a brow.

  “I’ve given everything to our people, and I will continue to do so.” He pointed at his unconscious mate. “But I will not leave my other half alone among strangers.”

  Nyx nodded. “And when we arrive at the camp?”

  “I will fight with my men and leave her in the loving care of Briggs.”

  The quiet healer shallowly bowed. “I will care for her as if she was my own.”

  “Good. Let’s move,” Pyre commanded.

  Thirty-Two
<
br />   Tempest

  So bloody tired.

  Her eyes flickered behind her eyelids, and Tempest began to rouse. Tingles ran up and down her arms and legs as she tried to move into a more comfortable position. Only a few more minutes of sleep. She grunted when her body didn’t immediately obey the command to roll onto her left side.

  She shivered, goosebumps rising along her skin. Winter’s bite, it was bloody cold. A thread of unease curled in her belly when the chill didn’t abate. Something was very wrong. Flashes of memories skipped through her mind, and she stiffened. The burrow. Sleeping in the snow. She had to get moving now.

  Temp moaned as she opened her gritty eyes and blinked at the white snow ceiling of the burrow. She frowned and rubbed her blurry eyes before once again focusing on the ceiling. The roof consisted of strong wooden beams with canvas stretched over them. Her heart began to pound as she painfully sat up and massaged her throbbing temples. The room waved, and she shivered as the cold seemed to cut straight to her bones. She tugged the blanket up around her shoulders and ears as the canvas walls of the tent fluttered in the bitter wind.

  A tent.

  A lavish tent.

  Colorful carpets covered the floor, and luxurious pillows formed seating around a low-set table to her right. A woodstove sat in the far-left corner, and the glow of red coals peeked out between the grates. A long table lay to her right, flush against the wall, maps and weapons scattered haphazardly across its surface. Dread filled her as her eyes latched on to a decanter full of fire whiskey. There was only one person she knew who religiously drank fire whiskey.

  The king.

  Terror skittered down her spine, and she glanced to the left, toward the entrance that led to what appeared to be a larger section of the tent. How much longer did she have before he returned? Tempest flipped back the blanket and checked for restraints. Nothing. He must have thought her too sick to try to escape. Painstakingly, she inched toward the right side of the bed, determined to get to the weapons table. Her body cried out in pain, and each movement was stiff and awkward.

  She hissed as her feet touched the floor, her toes curling. She was so damned cold. Her legs shook when she tried to stand, and Tempest collapsed back on the mattress, her breathing labored. Sweat dampened her brow, and her pulse kicked up. There would be no escape in this condition. Her attention moved back to the table covered in knives. If she couldn’t run, she could at least protect herself.

  Tempest lowered herself to the floor and painstakingly crawled on her hands and knees to the table. Sweat dampened the nape of her neck and her palms as she reached the table. Carefully, Temp stretched her arm up and groped for the first blade she could find. Her fingers curled over a cool hilt, and she pulled it back. It was a simple dagger, but it would do the job. Her body shook as she clawed her way back to the bed. She placed the weapon on the mattress and grabbed fistfuls of the sheets, praying her muscles would hold long enough for her to get back into the bed.

  Her throat burned, and her belly cramped as she huffed and puffed, barely managing to flop herself onto the mattress. Shivering, she scooched toward the headboard with silky pillows and propped herself up, wheezing. She needed a drink, badly. A small pitcher sat on the ornate circular side table to her left. She licked her chapped lips. Was it worth it?

  He poisoned you.

  She shoved down her need for water and wriggled down into her covers, the blade safely in her possession. Destin hadn’t wanted to kill her after all. The drug he’d given her had made her lethargic and rendered her unconscious. But for what purpose?

  Her heart skipped a beat, and she focused inward, assessing her body for the type of pain she was experiencing. She wiggled her hips and trembled when nothing pinched or ached in her groin. Surely if he’d raped her, she would feel something? Her uncles had explained to her what happened when a woman lost her virginity, and it wasn’t usually pleasant for the woman the first time.

  Nausea rose high and fast, and she turned her face to the left, heaving. Bile dripped from her lips but nothing else. She shook as she wiped her mouth with the back of her arm, and tears flooded her eyes.

  Don’t cry. Once you start, you won’t stop.

  She clenched her fists and sucked in a shuddering breath before collapsing back on the pillows. Tempest couldn’t afford to be emotional. Emotions led to mistakes. And mistakes led to death. She wasn’t ready to die.

  Calm yourself. Think. Don’t feel.

  For a while, all she did was stare at nothing. Finally, she looked at the ceiling and began to count her breaths. Her eyes slowly dried, and her racing heart slowed. Grim determination replaced her initial fear. She palmed the knife. Destin would come for her, and, when he did, she’d strike hard and true. He’d never hurt another person again, and he’d never get to have her.

  Footsteps crunched in the snow, and she snapped her attention toward the entrance to the right. Tempest closed her eyes and made sure her breathing was regulated. She cracked open her eyes just a sliver as the flap to the larger part of the tent was pushed back. From her angle, she could only see the man’s boots. Her muscles threatened to lock up, but the boots disappeared from view. Fabric rustled, and hinges groaned.

  A trunk opening, perhaps?

  The light steps whispered over the carpet, growing louder as the person drew closer.

  Everything stopped as the intruder paused in the entrance, his head bowed as he fiddled with the buckle on his chest plate. His armor was splattered with blood and mud.

  She gasped; a gurgle stuck in the back of her throat. His head snapped up, and icy blue eyes locked on her.

  Mal. The Jester.

  Her bottom lip trembled. She didn’t care what form he wore. He’d found her.

  A choked sob escaped her, and then everything broke free. He rushed to the bed and pulled her into his arms. She cried, not caring how his armor pressed harshly against her.

  He swaddled her in the blanket and deposited her into his lap, soft crooning sounds falling from his lips. Helplessly, she clung to him.

  “It’s okay, love,” Pyre said, rocking them back and forth. “You’re safe.”

  “I thought you were the king,” she sobbed.

  “He will never hurt you. I’ve got you.”

  Tears ran down her cheeks, and she realized she wasn’t the only one shaking. “Pyre?”

  His arms tightened around her, and he lifted her chin, peppering kisses along her cheeks, jaw, temples, and hair. A small whine escaped him as he pressed his face into the crook of her neck.

  “Almost lost you,” he rasped, his breath heating her neck. “I didn’t think you’d wake up. I thought—” He pulled back and stared down at her face, his blue eyes wild. Even with Mal’s appearance, she could still see the kitsune she’d met in the woods beneath everything. “You almost died. I can’t—” Another shudder rolled though him. “I can’t lose you.”

  Tempest tucked her head beneath his chin and hugged him as hard as she could. Pyre squeezed her and leaned back against the pillows with his nose resting against her temple. She licked at her dry lips, tasting the salt of her tears, then swallowed, her dry throat screaming.

  “Water,” Tempest whispered feebly.

  Pyre jostled her around, and then a wooden cup pressed to her lips. She greedily drank the liquid as it quenched her parched throat.

  “Slowly,” he murmured pulling back the cup.

  Tempest tipped her head back and stared up at him, the tears on her cheeks beginning to dry. “Thank you.”

  He set the cup on the nightstand without taking his eyes from her. His jaw clenched, and he swallowed hard. His eyes glossed over, and one tear trailed down his left cheek. Tempest lifted her hand and wiped it away, cupping Pyre’s cheek without being fully aware of what she was really doing. He nuzzled his cheek into her touch, then turned his face slightly to plant a kiss on her palm.

  It was by far the most intimate touch she’d ever received. She inhaled sharply, and Pyre pulled away, d
ropping his forehead onto hers. He held her gaze.

  “From here on out, we do everything together or not at all.”

  He brushed his nose against hers and laid a gentle kiss between her brows. She found herself nodding, even as her eyelids began to droop. Finally, she was warm but so tired. So many questions had arisen in her mind, but she couldn’t remember a single one of them. Tempest pillowed her cheek against his bicep and closed her eyes, already sinking into sleep.

  “Sleep, love. I’ll be here when you wake.” His fingers skimmed her cheek.

  She clutched at his hand. “Don’t let me fade away.”

  “Never,” he whispered fiercely.

  Thirty-Three

  Tempest

  “Why won’t anyone let me fight?” Tempest grumbled. “I swear, I’m fine!”

  Five days had passed since she’d almost died, but it felt like a lifetime.

  Miserable days of being fussed over like a small child—of being watched like a hawk every time she ate or drank or needed to relieve herself. Five days of being told to get back into bed whenever she ventured outside of the tent, even though she’d steadily regained her strength.

  “Sure thing, pup,” Brine muttered, rolling his silver eyes for the umpteenth time. He pushed her shoulder softly, indicating for her to get back inside the tent. He’d barely tolerated her stretching in the morning. Apparently, sparring was still not on the list of okay things to do when one had been poisoned.

  Tempest scowled as she let him maneuver her back inside the warm tent. She thought she’d known headstrong men growing up in the barracks, but the shifter males she was now surrounded by were a whole new level. “I can’t afford to lose my edge. I need to train. I’ll be careful.”

  “I don’t believe you for one second.” The wolf snorted and crossed his arms over his wide chest. “You almost died. Poison isn’t something to take lightly. Even I would take it easy if I survived what you’ve experienced.”