Red Ruse

Chapter One

Mare

My room has become a prison.

Arvens stand at the entrance, parting only for Maven and his mother. My old maids have disappeared, replaced with the downcast eyes and silent service of reds who know to help me would spell their doom.

Elara makes sure to feed me images of what might happen should I ask. Their bodies splayed on the marble floor, ears bleeding as screams echo in the distance. She visits me daily, a vice tightening inside my skull long after she's left.

She wants me to know. To feel her abilities tearing through me, shredding my defenses and leaving me drained. She is my master.

And I am her toy.

The door creaks open, and I flinch. But instead of blonde hair and whispered threats, ragged nails nudge tea into my own. I blink. "What--"

"Chamomile." Maven adjusts his chair. "It helps with . . . headaches."

Silence.

This is the man I agreed to marry. The one who hasn't visited me since, either from shame or Elara's order. Does he regret saving me?

"You missed the coronation." His tone is even, unflinching. "As well as the funeral."

"Was there a difference?"

A breath, swallowed into clenched fists. "It's difficult, I know."

"You know nothing." It takes all I have not to spit in his face. "Save the lies for your subjects."

Maven doesn't flinch. "Perhaps." An admission, so soft I might mistake it for kindness. "But I may know more than you think."

Chuckling hurts. "I doubt that."

He nudges the cup into my hands. "You sound hoarse."

The ceramic, once burning, cools to warmth with a swipe of his fingers. I could ruin his coat with a swipe of mine. "You look like death."

It's not a lie. His voice may be smooth, but his body has grown ragged, an ink sketch left to dry in the rain. If I reached, I could trace the new bruises under his eyes. Press a nail until silver drips onto the floor.

He sighs. "I don't expect you to trust me."

"Good." My snarl sounds like a sob. "What do you want?"

"Unimportant." Maven has the audacity to smile. "Would you like anything?"

My mouth parts, but finds no sound. No word for the void he's carved within me, the absence I refuse to accept as my own. I shake my head. "Nothing you're willing to give."

He softens. "Not if you don't ask for it."

My hand moves as if to hold his, brushing away at the last second. He stills. His fingers curl with absence, with want he hasn't courage to voice. Whatever distance he put between us, it wasn't enough to temper my effect on him.

I stare him in the eye. "You can start by letting me out of this room."

Sigh. "That's Mother's call, I'm afraid." He looks off to some point in the distance. "But she's warming up to you."

I raise a brow.

"There's a ball this evening. You should attend." Maven tilts his head, fingers rattling against the table. "No explosions this time, I promise."

"I'll have to make my own, then." My heart pounds as he laughs, a knife twirling on its edge. "Will Elara be there?"

"Yes." He grows quiet. "But I asked to escort you."

"In chains?"

"On my arm."

A promise, so distant I'd nearly forgotten, re-emerges with horrifying clarity. "I–" My hands shake. "I won't be your symbol."

"Mare."

"I'll break the cameras. I'll kill the guards. I'll–"

"That won't be necessary." His voice grows pained. "I put it off as long as I could, but–" A breath. "Mother's right. We can't afford to anger Samos."

It takes a moment to register. Of course. Elara would never allow him a decision so grand, not when her own throne hangs in the balance. I beat my disappointment back with a crowbar. "I'm surprised she hasn't forged a crown from my bones."

He chuckles, rising from his chair as though I were a settled matter. A settled matter that grabs his wrist before he can leave, forces his gaze to mine without the safety of distance. "Maven." A whisper, soft as a ghost. "You told me I'd either be a prisoner or a queen."

His mouth parts, settling in a grim line. "You said it didn't matter."

"Does it?"

He turns away. "You're mine either way."

"But you'll always be Elara's." My voice wields daggers. "Prisoner or king."

Maven pauses. He doesn't turn back. He doesn't say a word. Denies fate for a moment of stillness, before continuing on his path.

As for mine . . .

The tea lays cold at my bedside, untouched despite my throat aching for relief. It's not medicine. Not a cure. A hasty solution to distract from the problems at hand. One I pair with a note for when he collects the remains:

My head still hurts.

Find better tea.