CHAPTER 34: THIRTY FOUR

"Preposterous," one councilman snarls, face red as a forge. "She’s no candidate. She’s a criminal. A murderer. And even worse, a bloody liar. She must’ve been sent by the Wolf King to infiltrate our ranks."

"She’s an enemy of the crown," another hisses, his robes rattling as he jabs a jeweled finger toward me. "You would spit on the sanctity of this tradition by letting her stand among them.

It is a strange thing when the Council of Ebonheart descends into a fit of chaos because of you.

The guests have been ushered out, the revelry long ended. Lucien declared it dull and dismissed them all, because apparently introductions were over. The Selection, I’ve learned, drags on in three stages where princesses and noble ladies literally fight for the honor of being his bride.

Makes me wonder what divine madness would ever possess me to fight to become a bride. After recent development, I’ve decided no man is worth it. Who knows, the next one might just succeed in killing me.

They’ve been at it for an hour, while I stand in the centre of the room, clad only in the king’s jacket. Well, it is a nice jacket. And gods, that smell. I dip my head toward the collar, breathing him in before I can stop myself. Hunger coils low in my stomach at the sheer carnality of it.

I snap up, catching myself. Must be all that liquor.

My gaze lifts to the harem--I mean, the...groupie? Well. The women who sit by the fire pit, glaring openly at me as their parents bicker over gods know what. Only one of them smiles at me. She’s the same woman who barged into King Lucien’s room earlier. She wiggles her fingers at me like we’re best of friends and winks.

Weird. Fucking. People.

Margot sits straighter in her chair. "And yet she has royal blood. Deny it all you wish, but that makes her eligible. You cannot rewrite lineage."

"You were singing a different tune last I checked, Margot. What changed? Her pretty little cunt catch your attention? You were fine executing the prisoner when you thought her a man. Sexist, much?" Thessaly seethes.

Silence falls, then.

A silence that stretches, swells, until even the crows outside quieten.

Because Lucien stirs.

The King shifts on his throne as though waking from a nap, dark violet gaze sliding lazily to me. "What is your name?"

His question is soft, almost teasing, but I feel the compulsion under his words, the seduction threaded through each syllable to disarm my mind into responding. Thing is, I’m so drunk that if he’d asked me politely, I would have answered politely. But now? I’m ticked off.

So I lick my lips and say, "Ilya."

Someone gasps. Another chokes. Margot shakes her head and nutters something about the gods sparing us all.

A slow, wicked smile curls at the King’s mouth. And suddenly, an invisible anvil is brought down upon my back, slamming me onto the ground on my knees with force. "As much as I enjoy a good jest, there are lines you will not cross." He rests his chin on his fist again. "Now, repeat that to me again."

I think of resisting. Then I wonder why I need to. My name is as useless as I am, anyway. "Valka. Valka Ironfang."

The hall stays silent for a while yet before I feel the strength of his aura pinning me to the ground lessen. I stay right there, partly because I feel my stomach roiling to expel it’s contents. Partly because it floor feels more comfortable after standing for so long.

"Well," he drawls finally, voice soft enough that everyone leans closer, "Why not?"

The Council erupts again, louder this time.

He taps a finger against his armrest, silencing the outrage. "What’s the point of a contest, if it isn’t entertaining?" His gaze flicks to Margot, malice glinting under his smile. "I trust House Nythorn would be thrilled to have an addition to the ranks."

She rises, inclining her golden head in a bow. "We are beyond honoured by your decision."

I blink. What decision? It feels like I’ve been shoved into the backseat of a runaway carriage.

Margot crosses to me, seizing my wrist and hauling me upright. Her grip tightens until my bones grind. Her smile is one of polished innocence and elegance. "Thank His Majesty for the opportunity, child."

I wobble, squinting as my vision swims. "What opportunity?"

She glares down at me with disdain. "It’s been decided. You will take part in the Selection."

My face flames hotter and I yank my wrist from her grip with surprising ease. "What?! Why?!"

Margot looks at me like I’m the mad one. "Why?" she echoes, and I catch the same look on the rest of the faces, like I have asked an inconceivable question. "There is no greater an honour to serve and rule by the King’s side. But you wouldn’t understand because you have grown up at the bottom chain all your life. But of course, I will teach you, as House Nythorn takes charge of you from this moment forward. You will present as one of ours."

"One of yours?" I seethe. "I am not your daughter. You said so yourself. I do not even want to compete. I do not want to be Queen." I stab a finger at the King. "And I sure as hell would die before I get myself leashed to that bastard. And if it so great an honour, why don’t YOU marry him instead?!"

She slaps me.

It isn’t a pat to the cheek. It is the kind that splits your lips, loses you a tooth and floods your mouth with blood. For three whole seconds, the world spins in stars.

Clutching my cheek, I gape at her. Shock first. Rage after.

"You are of royal blood," she commands, voice cold, and you will conduct yourself as such. Or I will be forced to teach you how."

I let my hand drop from my cheek. "I am a peasant, born of an Omega. I wouldn’t know the first thing about court. I have clothed and trained with men. I have seen more naked men alive than the lot of you put together in this room. The last place you want me is on that throne, corseted and powdered, paying doll. I only know the way of the blade. I only know how to fight and kill. Which is why I promise you that the next time you raise your hand to me, I will ensure it is the last time you ever use it."

Something flashes in her eyes. Fear, maybe, but I don’t back down, leaning in, staring her down even if she is inches taller than me. "Maybe I am a prisoner with no rights to make demands, but this is my decision to make and I chose to spit in your faces, yet again. I will take no part in the Selection. You’d have to drag my dead fucking body to fight for the hand of that mad man."

I tug the King’s jacket off my naked body and hurl it at his head. I don’t wait to see if it lands before turning and stalking from the room.

But you know how the story goes.

No one ever listens to me.

And they did, in fact, drag my dead-fucking-body from the hall. Because someone knocked me out cold before I ever make it to the doors.