A Vow So Bold and Deadly (The Cursebreaker Series Book 3)

I don’t expect to have an appetite, but once the platters are uncovered, I find that I’m ravenous. I was tense and fidgety at the thought of another servant entering my room, but Grey didn’t allow the young man to even cross the threshold. Instead, he ordered a guard to bring the tray in, and he stood between me and the guard while the food was placed on a side table.

Now we’re alone again, and the food is steaming between us. I’m afraid to touch anything.

Grey is studying me, and he says, “I can have a guard taste it.”

I’m being ridiculous. I have tasters in the kitchens, anyway.

But still.

“No, no,” I say after a moment. But I don’t touch the food.

Grey gives me an ironic glance, then swiftly slices a small piece of everything on his plate and tries it all.

I stare at him with wide eyes. He has magic that would keep him safe, surely, but—

“It’s fine.” He lifts his plate and gestures for us to switch. “Take mine.”

I feel sheepish, but I swap with him anyway. I imagine sitting here alone, staring at a platter, watching it get cold while I deliberate over whether someone would poison me. I’m so relieved that he stayed, that he’s here, that I nearly burst into tears over my food. I have to swipe dampness away from my eyes.

“Indeed,” says Grey. “Your chef’s roasted chicken often brings me to tears, too.”

His voice is so dry that it makes me giggle through my tears. “In a good way?”

He grimaces. “No. She may as well light it on fire.”

I laugh outright. “It’s far better than all that shellfish in Emberfall.” I make a face.

“Blasphemy.” He isn’t smiling, but his eyes are dancing, so I know he’s teasing. “Tycho and I used to race each other across Rillisk for the best steamed crabs in the city.”

“I wasn’t sure there was anything worse than shellfish until you mentioned running to get it.”

That startles a laugh out of him, and the sound lodges itself in my heart. He’s so reserved that smiles are earned, and true laughter is hard won. Every time it happens, I feel like I need to lock the sound away in a box to treasure for later.

Then he says, “The barmaid, Jodi, was a friend.”

Maybe it’s the way he says friend, or the way he mentions a girl’s name, or the fact that she was a barmaid, but something inside me sits up and pays attention. “A friend?” I say, trying to sound casual but likely failing miserably.

“Yes. A friend. Nothing more.” He shakes his head a little. “I was too … too wrapped up in fear of discovery for anyone to be anything more.”

“All your strategic positioning?”

“Mmm,” he says noncommittally, and I smile. I wait, but that’s all he says. For a moment, I wonder if that’s meaningful, if there was more between them that he doesn’t want to admit. But I should know better. For someone who reveals so little about himself, he’s incredibly forthright. There’s never a hint of artifice or deceit.

The silence that builds between us has no strain to it, and my earlier emotion has softened into something warmer. Better. Gentler. It makes me wish we never had to leave this space, that my world was confined to these quarters. Just me and him and this roaring fire, nothing outside the window but the night sky.

The thought feels immeasurably selfish.

I have to clear my throat before tears can form again. “I saw you on the fields with Tycho. I haven’t seen him in days. Is he well?”

“I’m … not certain.”

It’s not an answer I expected, so I snap my gaze up. “Why?”

“I suspect he may be struggling with his chosen role.”

“Well.” I uncork a bottle of wine and somehow restrain myself from pouring thrice as much as I usually would. “He is not alone in that.”

“No.” Grey sighs. “He’s not.” He pushes his glass toward me.

He almost never drinks. I raise my eyebrows.

He shrugs.

I pour.

I’ve drained half of mine before he reaches for his glass, but he takes the smallest sip before setting it back on the table. His eyes follow my motion, though, watching the tilt of my glass, or maybe the curve of my fingers around the stem, or my lips or my throat or—

I need to put this glass down. My cheeks are on fire, my thoughts a million miles away from where they should be.

He’s tracing a finger around the base of his glass, and I blush. “I thought we were both going to be reckless,” I say.

But of course, he’s never reckless. Never careless.

Grey confirms it when he says, “I should be with your guards, Lia Mara.”

He’s probably right, but the words pierce my heart. Then I realize he hasn’t moved. Those dark eyes are still fixed on me, his long fingers still tracing endless circles around the glass.

Fight for yourself, Nolla Verin said.

I swallow. “I want you to stay with me,” I whisper.

He closes his eyes and draws a breath, and then he drains half his glass.

Abruptly, he sets it down and shoves the wine away. “Silver hell. That will lead nowhere good.”

I don’t know if he means the staying or the wine, but I want to challenge him to drink it. For once, I want to see him lose control.

The very thought makes me flush. At least one of us is being responsible. The whole reason he’s here is to keep me safe. To keep assassins out. He can’t very well do that if he’s drunk.

I push away from the table and return to stare out the window, resting my fingertips against the icy chill of the frame. The cold is startling and stabilizing, and I take a deep breath. “Go if you must,” I say. “My guards will likely welcome the—”

Hands close on my waist, and I gasp.

“Shh,” he murmurs, holding me still. His breath touches my hair, the skin of my neck. His hands are always so gentle, but I can feel his strength. My heart gallops along in my chest, but I want to lean into him, to let his arms close around me and capture my thundering pulse.

“There will be talk,” he says, his voice low and intent. “Even if I do nothing more than stand guard inside your door while you sleep, your guards and servants will talk. There will be no quelling the rumors.”

I think of him on the field, facing Solt, doing what he can to control my soldiers without defying my wish to rule without violence, trying to maintain control without giving the impression that he’s countermanding me. I consider everything Nolla Verin said and wonder if I’ve been crippling everyone around me with my own self-doubt. I’ve spent so much time worrying about what everyone else wants, worrying about how they see me, that I haven’t given a moment’s thought to what I want.

“Then let there be talk,” I finally say.

“Lia Mara—”

“I don’t care.” I turn in his arms and look up at him. “Wait. Do … you?”

“It would be difficult for your people to think any less of me.” Grey frowns. “But I do not wish for them to think less of you.” He lifts a hand to trace a lock of hair that’s fallen against my cheek.

“I think rather highly of you,” I say softly. His thumb brushes along my jaw, and I shiver.

“I’m relieved someone does.” His finger strokes down the length of my neck, so lightly, like he’s not sure if he should dare. His touch is almost weightless as his hand drifts across the slope of my shoulder—before he draws back.

I catch his wrist, digging my fingers into the leather there. His eyes spark with light from somewhere, and we stand there breathing at each other.

My blush deepens, and I glance at his hand sheepishly. “As if you couldn’t break my hold.”

“As if I’d want to.”

“As if—”

He leans in to press his lips to mine, and I suck in a breath. My fingers are still wrapped around his wrist, but it feels like he has caught me. His mouth is warm against my own, slow and intense, drawing a small sound from my throat when his tongue brushes mine. I don’t know if I let him go or if he breaks free, but his hands are suddenly on my waist, lighting a fire inside me. My back hits the cold frame of the window, making the panes rattle.

I gasp in surprise, but he captures the sound with his mouth, his weight against me now, heavy and addictive. We’ve kissed before, but he seems closer than he’s ever been. His kisses have grown more insistent, more sure. More of a challenge than a question.

My hands drift along the muscles of his arms to his shoulders, his chest, seeking skin but only finding so much leather, so many weapons. His fingers play at the edge of my belt, where I’m a little ticklish, and it makes me giggle and squirm—until his other hand slips lower, finding my hip through the robes, making me flush and gasp in an entirely new way.

I break the kiss, tucking my face into his neck, breathing hard against the sweet warmth of his skin. I can’t think. I can’t speak. I want to laugh. I want to cry. “Grey,” I whisper. “Grey.”

“Faer bellama,” he says against my hair. “Faer gallant.”

Beautiful girl. Brave girl.

My eyes fill, and I draw back to look at him.

He lifts a hand to brush the tears away, then leans in to brush his lips against my damp cheek.

“Faer vale,” he says.

Gentle girl.

My hands find his neck, my fingers stroking the hair at his nape as I inhale the heady scent of him.

He begins to pull away, but I hook my fingers in the straps along his chest and hold fast.

He stops, his eyes searching mine, but I dodge his gaze and fix my eyes on the buckles. I take a deep breath and begin to unfasten one.

He goes very still.

My cheeks are on fire. Once again, our breathing is very loud between us.

“There are a lot of buckles, you know,” I say, but my cheeks are burning. I can’t look at him.

He smiles. “As you say.”

His hands are quick and deft, easily three times faster than mine, born of a time when he was trained to adorn himself in armor to face an immediate threat. But the leather and weapons are in a pile on the floor in seconds, leaving him in a linen shirt and calfskin trousers. At least, I think so. I barely have time to register that he’s still dressed before he’s kissing me again.

Oh, I was so wrong before. Now he’s closer than ever, the thin fabric of his shirt doing nothing to hide the warmth of his skin. There’s nothing hesitant about his kisses now, and I drink in the taste of him until I feel like I’m drowning. He can surely feel my heart pounding against his own, especially when his hand sweeps down the length of my body, tugging at my robes, hiking the silk higher, baring my calf, my knee. His hand finds the bare skin of my outer thigh just as his hips meet mine.

I suck in a breath and cling to him. I forget how to breathe. I forget how to think. I want to feel all of him at once. I tug at his shirt, and my knuckles are rewarded with the smooth slope of his waist, the gentle curve of muscle leading toward his rib cage.

Then my fingers settle over the harsh edges of his scars. I can’t tell if he freezes or if I do. Either way, my hands slow. Stop. Slip away.

Grey has drawn back a few inches. His eyes are dark and inscrutable now.

I’ve only seen his scars once, when we were on the run from Emberfall. We’d taken shelter in a cave in the mountains, and he didn’t realize I was looking. Even then, it was only a brief glance, a tiny glimpse of something terrible. Noah has seen the worst of it, from before Grey was healed, but otherwise, he’s kept the marks hidden. Even when Princess Harper first brought him clothes, he refused to let her see what had been done to him.

Maybe the scars make him feel vulnerable, or maybe they’re a reminder that someone he once trusted could cause such torment, but the air between us has shifted. There’s a shadow where a moment ago there was light.

I don’t know if it’s pity for his anguish or awe at his strength or rage for what was done to him—or some emotion I can’t even identify. Whatever it is, I reach for him again, sliding my hands under his shirt. He’s tense now, but he doesn’t move. When my fingers drift across the marks, he shivers, his breath catching the tiniest bit, but he doesn’t pull away.

I push off the wall and step into him, pressing my lips to the skin at the base of his neck, letting my hands travel up his back, holding him against me. I can feel his heart beat against mine, quick and fluttering like a trapped bird, but as I hold him, as my fingers trace the lines and my breath warms his neck, his tension eases. Calms. Settles. His head dips and he presses kisses to my temple, to my cheek, his fingers tangling in my hair.

“As I said,” he whispers, his voice a low rasp, “you know all the ways to make me yield.”

This is different from the wildfire attraction of a moment ago. More powerful. More precious. This is trust. Faith. Hope.

Love.

He kisses the shell of my ear, adding a little nip with his teeth before withdrawing. He reaches up to pull the shirt over his head, and all the breath leaves my lungs in a rush. The firelight paints his skin with gold and shadow, and I’m flushed and dizzy with desire and fear igniting in my belly. Suddenly I’m shy, my hands fluttering against my abdomen as he bends to yank the ties on his boots. But he must notice, because he pauses for the briefest moment, peering up at me.

“Should I re-dress?” he says, and there’s no censure in his voice, no judgment.

“No. No!” I shake my head quickly. I have to make my voice work. “Grey—Grey, you should know—”

I can’t say it. Flames are eating up my ability to think. He’s too lovely, too fierce, too male, too … oh, too much.

He kicks his boots free. Without warning, he steps forward and scoops me into his arms. I yip and grab hold of his neck, but it puts our faces very close. My free hand is against his bare chest, and I have to force my eyes to meet his.

“I should know what?” he says, and his voice is low and gentle, just for me.

“I’ve never,” I whisper.

“Ah.” He carries me to the bed, and now it’s my heart’s turn to want to escape its cage. But he eases me onto the coverlet, then climbs up to lie beside me. Mere inches of space exist between us, and I want to close every inch.

Then he says, “I haven’t either.”

It’s so unexpected that I nearly fall off the bed. “But—you were a guardsman! How is that possible?”

He shrugs a bit. “I was seventeen when I was sworn to the Royal Guard, and we forswear family, so courtship was not allowed. Some of the others would visit the pleasure houses in the cities, but that wasn’t for me.” He traces a finger along the line of my robes, along my shoulder, across my neck, and then down the front of my chest.

I shiver and my breath catches, but he leans in to press another kiss to my lips. “You’ll have to forgive my inexperience.”

“You’ll have to forgive mine—” I begin, but his gentle hand slips under my robe, and my back arches into his touch, and I find I can’t think at all.

“I’ve heard many stories,” he says against my cheek, his voice teasing as he drags his teeth along my jaw. “You read so very many books.” His thumb strokes against a sensitive bit of skin, and I gasp again.

He draws back enough to find my eyes, and he smiles. “Surely, we can figure it out.”