Bash shoved Adrian’s shoulder, though his friend’s jibe did little to lift his spirits. “She’s been through a lot. Once this is all over, she should find happiness with someone who can put her first. And that’s something I can never do.”
“You’re a fool.” Adrian shook his head. “That woman cares about you. You’re only protecting yourself by pushing her away. You’re using what the count said as an excuse, and you know it.”
He wasn’t doing that. Bash was being selfless.
“No, if the count is telling the truth, then he’s a decent man. He didn’t have to come for her, and he did. She belongs with someone who’d risk it all to be with her.”
Adrian bristled. “No, Bash. She belongs with whomever she damn well chooses. She’s well aware of what she’ll get when it comes to you and your crown. You’d be a spineless fool if you take that choice away simply because you’re too afraid of getting hurt.”
Bash cocked his head. He’d never heard Adrian raise his voice. Margrete had not only found a place in his heart, but in his friend’s as well.
“She’s had enough of her life decided for her, don’t you think?” Adrian continued, undeterred by his king’s silence. “And you—” He raised his finger, shoving it into Bash’s chest. “You are the most decent man I know, king or not.” In a whisper, he added, “You’ve never given yourself enough credit.”
“I’m hardly a good man.” He tried to shake off Adrian’s hand, but his fingers only bit harder into the muscle of his shoulder.
“You’re a good man because you care about doing what’s right, even if it has cost you your own chance at finding happiness.”
“You’re just fishing for a raise.” Bash attempted to joke, but Adrian wasn’t having it.
“You’re my brother, Bash. Always have been, regardless of blood. I love you.” Adrian glanced at his boots. “I only wish you carried that same love for yourself.”
Bash didn’t know what to say. Adrian’s passionate words struck a chord deep within him. There’d never been the time to focus on himself, not when he had a kingdom to run, but when the nights grew long and sleep wouldn’t come, loneliness crept up, and that was when he turned to the bottle, drowning out his doubts with drink.
An image flashed across his mind. One of her…on his arm. At his side. His partner.
Them. Together.
As usual, his commander had made a fair point—it was Margrete’s choice what kind of life she wished to lead. Him making that decision for her only made him the coward Adrian likened him to.
“Tell her how you feel at the feast.” Adrian jolted him from his thoughts of the life he could have, a life he hadn’t dared envision before. “We may not be able to save the island, or the world, in time, but you do have control over what you say and do before it all goes up in flames.”
The night she drugged him, she spoke of sharing the burden, the weight crushing him, but he never believed that she might actually wish to endure the responsibility alongside him. He barely desired to carry it. But Adrian was right. Margrete should decide her own fate. And tonight, Bash would give her the chance.
Him or Count Casbian of Cartus.
He always did love a challenge.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Margrete
Margrete watched as the island’s citizens came together. Every person that lived and breathed for Azantian had been welcomed into the palace’s main hall, from the lowly peddlers to the fishermen.
Bash wasn’t the kind of ruler to sit above them all or separate himself on some raised throne. He immersed himself in the sea of his people, a graceful shark that swam through the current of souls. People bowed and clapped as he strolled among them, for even if nothing had changed—even if the Heart was still missing—he was the man they placed their faith in.
Beside Margrete, Nerissa chatted merrily with Bay. While he occasionally nodded to whatever she said, his gaze never strayed from Adrian, eyeing his boyfriend as if he were the only person in the room.
A cool breeze drifted past the courtyard’s doors, caressing Margrete’s gauzy skirts of crimson. Shade had sent the garment to her chambers just hours before the start of the festivities with a note that simply said, ‘Red would look good on you.’
The gesture had taken Margrete by surprise, only because the gown was the exact color as her wedding dress. But Shade couldn’t have known that, and the daring neckline was a far cry from the uptight lace dress she’d been forced to wear.
Margrete found Shade across the room, busy mingling with laughing partygoers. Her red hair was down, curled to her waist, and a body-hugging green dress clung to her curves. She looked sinfully stunning.
Margrete was about to glance away when Shade dipped her head back in laughter, her hair falling aside to reveal an angry slash of red marring the skin behind her right ear.
A shiver of unease raced down Margrete’s spine at the sight of it. Before she could examine the mark further, the alluring treasurer dashed out of sight, aiming for another waiting party of revelers. Absentmindedly, Margrete went to grasp the gem Bash had given her, but her neck was bare, the soothing weight of the stone absent. She’d opted not to wear it this evening.
It was just another painful reminder of what she couldn’t have.
In spite of her melancholy mood, the band struck up a merry tune, the crowd bellowing in esteem. Margrete looked up. Floating orbs hovered above them in the rafters like giant raindrops filled with tiny swimming creatures. She stared, captivated by a rainbow fish splashing from one suspended pool to another, frolicking with a pair of animated clownfish.
“Margrete.”
She lowered her eyes, the magic of the room forgotten. Count Casbian stood before her, adorned in fine onyx trousers and a luminous ivory shirt buttoned with pearls.
Bowing, he gently grasped her hand, placing a chaste kiss on her knuckles. “You look radiant.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked, stunned by his presence.
“Bash has graciously permitted me a personal escort.” The count jerked his head to the stout soldier leaning stiffly against the wall behind them. “He follows me everywhere—and I mean everywhere,” Casbian whispered.
Margrete couldn’t help but chuckle, elated to see the count unharmed and amongst such finery.
“Since it’s been a rather unusual past few days, would you care for a dance?” He slid his hand to the small of her back, and Margrete exhaled sharply. “I did come all this way to see you,” he added with a crooked smile, which made her reluctant heart flutter.
While she knew Bash was a man of his word, his actions still surprised her, especially that he allowed Casbian to walk among his people on such a sacred night.
“Of course,” she finally replied. “I’d love to dance.” She bit back her hesitation and placed her hand in his. One side of the count’s mouth curled up delightfully, his handsome face beaming, but Margrete saw the act as too perfect, too rehearsed. The smile felt hollow.
“Count Casbian,” she began, but he stopped her.
“Cas. Please, just call me Cas. Count Casbian is quite the mouthful, don’t you think?”
She nodded in polite agreement. “I’m glad you’re all right…Cas.”
The name didn’t feel right on her tongue.
He drew her in, one hand on her waist, the other clutching her hand. He smelled of deep woods and exotic spices, his eyes wide and blindly open to the future. Apparently, a future that still involved her.
Icy dread pooled in her belly. They’d be lucky if they had a future to worry about at all.
Casbian released Margrete into a graceful spin. His arm gently tugged her back to him a moment later, but she’d already spotted the man she couldn’t stop thinking about.
Amidst an adoring crowd of revelers, their eyes locked. Bash’s stare brimmed with fire and intensity even as people spoke into his ear, trying to gain their king’s attention. Margrete’s heart thundered, and not because of the count’
s hands on her body. Bash hadn’t stopped staring, never once losing sight of her as Casbian twirled her around the room.
When the song ended, guests applauded and praised the musicians on the marble dais. They bowed in reply, instantly slowing the music into something hauntingly wistful.
The revelers parted as Bash glided past them, his steps determined as he moved through a sea of color and laughter and light.
The sight of him approaching sent Margrete stumbling, but the count didn’t let her fumble. Casbian merely transformed her misstep into a sweeping spin.
She’d barely righted herself in the count’s arms when Bash’s voice—low and deep and impossibly gut-wrenching—pierced the air.
“Miss Wood, would you honor me with a dance?”
Bash’s steely gaze cut into Casbian, his broad shoulders tense. Margrete looked at them, two men who couldn’t be more unlike the other.
“Of course.” Casbian shot Bash a chilling look, one that relayed how he truly felt about Azantian’s king. If Bash was bothered, he didn’t let on.
“I believe I asked Margrete,” Bash corrected, turning to face her.
“Y-yes,” she managed, watching as Casbian stepped aside, a scowl contorting his features.
Bash was thoroughly confusing her. He’d practically shoved the count on her, and now he was interrupting their dance. She eyed him warily before taking his offered hand.
“Bash,” she greeted, swallowing hard when his gaze traveled the length of her body. His eyes sparkled with longing.
“Margrete,” he said her name slowly, seeming to savor every syllable. The sides of his mouth lifted into a sinful smile. When he dipped his hand to her lower back, she let out a gasp, and he curled his fingers against her possessively.
She raised a brow. He was touching her like a lover. Not like a man who’d rejected her and left her in tears.
She cocked a brow at him. “What exactly are you doing?”
“I’m dancing with you, princess,” he replied, pulling her against him. She gasped again and clutched the lapel of his jacket, a gilded affair with metal sea stars embroidered along the collar and cuffs.
“Then why does this feel like more than dancing?” she asked when his head dipped closer, his mouth inches away. His warm breath tickled her lips, and she let out a quivering exhale.
“Because it is,” he replied, a seductive whisper.
Margrete hardly felt her feet move as they glided across the floor. She was trapped in his gaze, his words echoing in her mind, but it was her dignity that had her pushing gently against his broad chest.
“No,” she said, growing angry. Her feet stopped moving, compelling him to still. “I’m not doing this with you again. You can’t spurn me one moment and expect me to fall into your arms the next.”
“I never should’ve said those things to you.”
“But you did,” she argued. “You said them, and surely a part of you must’ve meant them.”
He tightened his grip on her waist. “I thought…I thought you’d be happier. Happier with him.” He sighed, swallowing hard. “I saw the way you looked at him on the Phaedra. And I thought perhaps you might be better off with someone who was free to put you first. A man who wouldn’t place his duty above the woman he cared for.”
All around them, dancers spun and twirled, their smiling faces a blur.
He must’ve read the hesitation in her eyes, saw the question her lips didn’t dare ask, because he continued, though his voice was strained.
“My responsibility is to protect this island first, and it killed me to think of placing you behind such an overwhelming burden. The only difference between this morning and now is that I realize the choice is yours to make. You know who I am, what the price of being with me might cost, but it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t go to the ends of the world for you. That I wouldn’t do everything in my power to see you happy. Because when you laugh, when you smile...” His hand trembled against her exposed back, his eyes flush with the kind of raw vulnerability that made her head swim. “When you smile, I feel as if I’m being called home.”
Margrete faltered at his declaration, her knees weakening.
Home.
Bash likened her to a place she’d never known. A feeling she’d longed to experience. But now, looking into eyes that beamed with adoration, affection, and tender yearning, she realized the home she sought could be found in those pools of green.
“I made a vow to you on the Phaedra that my sword was yours…” He guided her hand to rest above his beating heart. “But it isn’t the only thing I wish to belong to you.”
Beneath her palm, she felt the wild beating in his chest, his pulse a hopeful melody. Margrete lowered her eyes to where they connected, where his fingers moved to entwine with her own. Seconds passed before she raised her gaze to his, drinking in the fear and longing in his eyes. The flecks of gold dotting his irises sparked with tentative hope, and she knew then what her answer would be. What it always had been.
It didn’t mean she would let him off the hook that easily.
“I don’t plan on leaving with the count when this is all over.” Below her palm, his heartbeat fluttered. She didn’t think he was breathing. “Perhaps I would like to stay, if only to discover my connection to this place.”
“I see,” he said, though she noted how one corner of his mouth twitched. “I do know more about Azantian than anyone else. Well, besides Ortum, that is. Maybe I could be of assistance.”
The orchestra began to play something lively and fast-paced, and laughter filled the air. The melody seeped through her skin and lifted her spirit.
She smiled, and Bash mirrored her, his grin brightening his entire face.
Bash leaned in, his scruff tickling her cheek as he whispered in her ear. “Meet me in the throne room in ten minutes,” he said, his voice a desperate rasp. “Please, princess.”
She was nodding before she realized she was doing so.
Bash chuckled against her neck, the sound brimming with joy. She wanted to bottle it up and keep it forever.
Reluctantly, he pulled away, but before he left her on the dance floor, Bash slipped his hand across the back of her neck and kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes as he lingered, savoring the unspoken promise they made to one another.
“Until then,” he murmured against her skin.
When he finally walked away, Margrete couldn’t help but feel like he’d taken a piece of her with him.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Margrete
Margrete floated beneath the swooping arches and beyond the perimeter of the grand hall where the feast was held. Picking up her skirts, she abandoned the festivities and dashed down the hall to the throne room.
Bash had yet to arrive, the chamber devoid of revelers. The place still unnerved her, though she didn’t understand why. Whenever she drew near the dais, her skin prickled, and the heavy sensation of foreboding wrapped around her throat and squeezed.
Gritting her teeth, she ambled over to the steps leading up the dais, determined to squash her nonsensical trepidation. The silver netting shone brilliantly beneath the sconces, and the throne appeared otherworldly beneath the intricate lattices. Having never been this close, she was only now noticing the carved symbols of convoluted design encircling the empty bezel of silver. It looked as if a jewel would rest there, and then she remembered—
The empty bezel used to hold Malum’s heart.
With a hasty glance behind her, Margrete touched the foreign yet familiar figures, tracing each swirl and line. The silver marks roused a distant sort of memory, one that didn’t belong only to her.
As her finger outlined the final marking, completing the circle, something ached inside of her, an old and obscure yearning that exposed itself in the form of fluttering nerves. These nerves tickled her stomach, spinning in her gut and rising up her throat. It was a strange sensation.
Margrete wondered if it was nerves at all.
Cautiously, she t
urned and lowered herself onto the throne. It was more than harmless curiosity that had driven her to sit, to rest her hands on the carved arms and caress the delicate designs the God of the Sea had supposedly crafted himself.
Sit. Watch, a voice whispered in her ear—the voice she knew in her soul didn’t belong to Malum. It belonged to him. Darius.
Margrete closed her eyes and a surge of adrenaline swept through her veins. It was heady and addicting, and her body buzzed with it.
When she opened her eyes, she realized she'd been tricked.
Margrete couldn’t move from the throne.
With a grunt, she tried in vain to pry her arms free, but invisible shackles held her wrists in place, imprisoning her in the ancient chair.
She heard the distant screams, but they faded as the world shifted and blurred. The scent of copper filled the air, clogging her nostrils.
She blinked, squeezing her lids closed in the hope that this was merely some nightmare, but when she opened them once more, she knew the scene before her was anything but a dream.
Watch, said the same sensuous voice she’d come to know. Its rich timbre was a far cry from Malum’s gentle caress, passion and hunger embodying the deep growl of his command.
Margrete gripped the armrests as a milky haze wafted into the opulent chamber, the scent of metal and rust potent in the air. Blood.
It was everywhere, painting the throne room floor and speckling the grim statues lining the chamber. It coated the intricate tapestries and azure drapes, and crimson splatters stretched up to mark the arched windowpanes that let in the moon’s hazy glow.
What is this? she asked, hoping the voice would answer. She needed to be reminded that this wasn’t real. That there was an explanation for why she was being forced to see this.
A stuttering heartbeat later, the voice answered.
This is your beginning.
She was about to scream, to yell out to the supernatural entity haunting her, when a new voice—one she didn’t recognize—broke through the air. She squinted as the churning fog cleared, revealing a man on his knees, gazing up at a cloaked figure cast in shadows.
The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea Page 25