A Vow So Bold and Deadly (The Cursebreaker Series Book 3)
A Vow So Bold and Deadly: Chapter 23

I’m glad there’s food to keep my hands busy, because I can’t look at Rhen without blushing. Every time my eyes flick to his, I’m distracted by his mouth, by his fingers, by the way he lifts a glass to his lips.

I have to think. I have to talk. I have to … something. Otherwise I’m going to keep imagining the feel of his hands on my body.

I take a gulp of wine. “Rhen? What are you going to do about Silvermoon?”

He hesitates, like he needs a moment to think of how to answer for the same reason I needed a moment to think of a question. “I’m going to send word to the Grand Marshal that if his merchants and citizens would like to discuss their grievances, I will listen to their complaints if they are willing to present them in an orderly fashion.”

That’s not at all what I expected him to say, and I stare at him. “But … what about the army? Wasn’t that the whole reason we went there?”

“Yes.” He drains his own glass of wine. “Though in truth, I have no idea whether he had an army that would be willing to fight on my behalf, or if that was merely a means to get me to Silvermoon on his own terms.”

“So what are you going to do?”

He rises to top off my glass, then refills his own. “I’ve been fighting against my people for months, Harper, trying to get them to unite once again. Today I nearly killed a man for daring to allow his people to question me.” His voice turns grave. “I have no idea what I am going to do. But spilling blood in front of a crowd is not going to forge any kind of path to unity.”

My whole body has cooled. I can’t stop staring at him. “Wow.”

He takes a sip from his glass. “My lady?”

Okay, maybe my entire body hasn’t cooled. I blush again, then wince. “I … I don’t know how to say this.”

“No lies between us.”

“Right.” I smooth my hands against the silk of the dressing gown, feeling it slide along my knees. “I’m realizing that I got so caught up in the poor choices you made I forgot that you knew how to make good ones.”

His eyebrows raise, but he thinks before he speaks, which is probably something I should have done.

“As did I,” he says. “With you.”

That’s unexpected. I want to say that I don’t know what he means.

But I do. He’s talking about me helping Grey.

Just like I’m talking about him hurting Grey.

But I suppose we can add other things to that list. Like when he kept Lilith a secret.

When I did the same thing.

All the times I didn’t ask for his help—and all the times he didn’t ask for mine.

I swallow and look away. My body has gone cool from the track of this conversation, but like those moments we spent together in the barn, it feels good to have naked truth between us. “I keep thinking about my mother, and whether she made a bad choice in staying with my father. Jake and I spent so much time resenting him for everything he put us through. Like … if he’d been knocking her around, that would’ve been one thing. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t a bad husband or father. I think he was just …”

My voice trails off.

“A bad man,” Rhen finishes quietly.

I flinch.

Rhen is quiet for the longest moment. “Do you fault your mother for staying with him?”

“Sometimes,” I say, and the word almost causes me physical pain to speak it. “But then I wonder what that means about me.”

He thinks about that for a while, and I know he’s drawing the parallels I’m afraid to voice. When he speaks, I’m surprised that his voice is contemplative, not defensive. “I think of my father often. I’ve told you how he was never faithful to my mother. I think of how he had a secret child that he sent away to be raised in poverty. I think of how I could have had a brother, how I could have been second in line for the throne.” Emotion tightens his voice, but only for a second. “How I never would have been a target for Lilith at all, how the magesmiths would not have been driven out of Emberfall. I sometimes wonder if the man was ever faithful to anyone who should have earned his devotion—or if he only thought of what he wanted in each moment of his life, and simply acted accordingly.” He pauses. “I wonder if he would see me as a failure—and I also wonder if I would want a man like that to see me as a success.”

I’m staring at him. The “secret child sent away to be raised in poverty” was Grey. This is the first time I’ve ever heard Rhen mention a brother with something akin to longing in his voice.

“What I have to remind myself,” he says, “is that my father was dealt a different hand by fate than I was. Just as your mother’s was different from yours.” He pauses. “Do you fault yourself for staying with me, Harper?”

If he asked me the question in a challenging way, my hackles would immediately go up. But maybe that’s why he doesn’t. His voice is level and calm, a true question.

And it’s such a good question, one that hits right at the core of every emotion I’ve felt over the past few months. I was angry at Rhen.

I blame myself.

Somehow, though, the way he’s presented this has pulled the sting out of it. Maybe it’s the realization that we both bring different experiences and different expectations to every challenge we face, those cards that fate deals. He’s the tortured prince, and a million choices layered on a million other choices got him here. I’m the broken girl from the streets of DC, and I got here the same way.

Maybe my father thought he was doing the best he could.

Maybe my mother thought the same—and that’s why she stayed.

Maybe that’s all Rhen is doing.

He doesn’t wait for an answer, but maybe he doesn’t have to. Rhen’s eyes shy from mine, and he picks up his glass. “I was surrounded by guards and weapons in Silvermoon,” he says, “so I looked at all those people like a threat. But until the moment they fell away from you, I don’t think I realized that all they wanted was … was a chance to air their grievances.”

I hold very still. There’s so much weight in his voice, I can feel it pressing down on the room.

He looks at me. “Much like Lia Mara simply wanted to forge a path to peace.” He takes a long swallow from his wineglass. “Much like Grey wanted to spare me the fight to keep my throne.”

“Rhen,” I whisper.

“On that night in the Crooked Boar, there was a moment when you challenged me, when you commented that I was looking for a path to victory, when the curse required me to find a path to love. Do you remember that?”

Yes. I nod.

“I think of that moment often. I wonder if fighting against Lilith for so long made me forget that not every interaction is a challenge that I must win.” He makes a humorless sound. “I wonder if Grey knew that, too. He often realized things about me before I myself ever did.”

That longing note is back in his voice, and I shift closer to him. “You … regret what you did.”

He nods, then drains the glass. “Very much. For so very many reasons.”

He misses him too, I realize. But those shadows are back in his eyes, and his hand must be tight on the glass, because his knuckles are white.

He’s afraid of the magic. That’s the crux here, the basis of all this conflict. That’s been the problem in this kingdom for far too long: the magic and the fear of it. That started before Rhen was even born—and then he met Lilith. Here, magic never stood a chance.

I gingerly put weight on my good foot, then reach to take the wineglass out of his hand. Then, like the night he first told me about Lilith, I curl into the chair with him, tucking my head under his chin, feeling him sigh against me, some of the tension easing out of his body.

I reach between us and grab the hilt of the dagger he bought from Chesleigh for an impossible sum of money, with no proof of whether it works. Impervious to magic. A weapon to bring down a magesmith. I pull it free.

Rhen catches my wrist, but his grip is gentle, his eyes on mine.

I rub a thumb against the hilt. “Despite everything, I do not think Grey would use magic against you, Rhen.”

“This is war, Harper. He will use everything at his disposal.”

“You’re going to war because you’re afraid of Lilith. You’re risking your people—his people—because of Lilith. Grey asked for peace. Lia Mara asked for peace.” I pause, thinking of that moment in the stables when he told me I would have helped him find a better way. He teased me about how I don’t ask for help, and he’s right: I don’t. He once promised me anything within his power to give, but I don’t like to ask for anything at all.

Maybe I should.

“Rhen,” I whisper. “I’m asking you for peace.”

He’s almost rigid against me. Rhen does not back down from a challenge. Syhl Shallow caused a lot of damage to Emberfall—but so did Rhen himself. And Karis Luran is dead.

And Lilith wants a victory. Not an alliance.

He takes the dagger from my hand and turns it over, pressing a finger against the blade, but not hard enough to draw blood. “I have already sent a regiment to the border,” he says. “And so has he.”

“So … send a message. Ask for a conversation.”

“If I send such a message, Lilith will—”

“Lilith is not the crown prince of Emberfall.”

For an instant, he goes still. I’m not sure he’s even breathing. But then he exhales against my hair, and he says, “Indeed, Harper. Neither am I.”

My heart is pounding in my chest, but I shift to look at him. His brown eyes are dark, glinting with gold from the fire.

“You are right, my lady,” Rhen says, his voice soft and resigned. He tosses the dagger onto the table. “As before, the only way to defeat Lilith is not to play.”

“You’re going to yield to Grey?” I almost can’t believe I’m saying the words.

“I will try for peace.” His eyes flash, a hint of that familiar spark in their depths. He traces a slow finger over my lips. “I am not yielding to Grey. I am yielding to you, Harper. For you.”

My eyes fill. I wish he could see what he looks like right now. What he sounds like. I think somewhere in his brain, this feels like defeat, but it’s not. Once again, he’s putting his people first. Not just his people, but the subjects of Syhl Shallow, too. He’s taking the hit so others can thrive. I’ve always thought that his greatest strength is when he’s patient, when he waits, when he doesn’t demand and instead waits for others to give.

I press a hand to his cheek. “For the good of Emberfall.”

He smiles. “For the good of—”

I silence him with a kiss. It’s gentle and soft and a bare press of my mouth against his, but every cooled nerve ending under my skin sparks a new flame. He makes a low sound in his throat, and then his hands land on my waist. I’m suddenly straddling his knees, my shift and dressing gown spilling down his legs. He pulls me closer, until I’m flush against him, my fingers tangling in his hair. I’m gasping, warmth gathering in my body, but the feel of his mouth on mine is so addictive that I don’t know if we’re slowing down or speeding up.

Then his hand finds my thigh beneath the layers of silk, and I suck in a breath. I’m wearing nothing under these gowns, and if his fingers move another inch, that’s not going to be a secret. His mouth lands on my neck, though, and the thumb of his free hand strokes over my breast, and I shudder.

But then he stops. His hands venture no farther. He’s breathing against me, his forehead against my neck. The air is suddenly full of hesitation. Uncertainty. Fear.

He’s so strong and sure that it takes me by surprise. But I remember why we’ve never gone this far before.

My hands disentangle from his shirt, and I wind my arms around his neck, pressing close. I brush my lips against his jaw. At first he doesn’t move, and I realize he’s withdrawing the way he always does. Protecting me. Protecting himself. From memories, from fear, from the very real threat of an enchantress who takes every small joy and twists it to torture him in the most effective way possible.

“Don’t yield to her,” I whisper. “Don’t even yield to the memory of her.”

He draws back a little, just enough so I can meet his eyes.

“Don’t yield to me either,” I say, and I have to swallow past the sudden emotion in my throat. “Yield to yourself. Yield to forgiveness. Yield to happiness. Yield to this moment. It’s not hers. It’s yours. It’s mine. It’s ours.”

“Ah, Harper.” He closes his eyes, and for a moment, I think he’s going to turn away from me. But then I’m lifted from the chair, swung into his arms for the second time today. He kisses me so deeply that I don’t realize he’s laid me on the bed until I feel his weight against me, and his hands are tugging at the skirts of my dressing gown.

This time, when his hand skates up my thigh, he doesn’t stop. I almost cry out when his fingers touch me, but he catches my gasp with a kiss. He’s so slow and determined that I can’t think past it. My entire world centers on the feel of my body and the touch of his hand, at the heat pooling in my belly. I instinctively reach for him, my hand seeking skin, pulling at the suddenly irritating fabric of his shirt. My fingers find his waist, the smooth muscle of his abdomen, the tied belt of his trousers.

My hand drifts lower, and he hisses, then grabs my wrist.

“It has been a very long time,” he says.

It startles a giggle out of me. Then he moves his other hand, and my back arches involuntarily. I see stars and clutch at the bedsheets. “Not too long,” I say, when I can breathe.

He grins, and possibly for the first time in my life, I see Rhen blush, just a bit. He leans down to kiss me. “Let’s see how much I remember.”

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