The King's Cursed Bride

Cursed

Carissa averted her gaze and strode to the ovens. After yesterday, she couldn't take another whipping. Her steps slowed. But neither could he.

She whipped around, snatched a rag from a table, and tumbled to her knees by the puddle before wiping with all she was worth. The boy's movements stalled before he scoured the floor with just as much vigor. The puddle gradually dissipated until all that remained was glistening wood and a mop bucket of tarnished water.

She sat back on her heels and swiped the back of her wrist against her moist forehead.

The boy's stare was unwavering. "Why?"

She searched his face but found nothing beyond his hard cherrywood eyes. His stoicism better fit a man decades older. "I wanted to help."

"Why?"

She twirled a lock of raven hair around her finger and tucked it behind her ear. "Because you don't have anyone else willing to help or protect you."

"No."

She blinked. No what?

"That's not the truth. When I asked, I was expecting an honest answer."

Her brows rose. "I was being honest."

"No, you weren't," he replied with frosty confidence. "People don't simply help people. They do it because they want something."

What had caused someone so young to become so jaded? She lifted her chin. "Not me."

He folded his spindly arms. "This is for when I helped you a few days ago, isn't it? You feel like you owe me, and you're trying to pay me back." Before she could answer, he nodded and continued. "That's quite generous of you, but you can stop now. After that whipping, you don't owe me anymore, and if you continue to do favors for me, then I'll be the one indebted to you." His eyes narrowed. "And I don't like owing anyone."

He set the mop handle against his shoulder, grasped the handle of the bucket before jerking it up, and strode to the supply closet, his legs wobbling beneath the burden.

Carissa lumbered to her feet and walked to the ovens. She stared at the flames, until they branded her vision. That little boy needed help—and more than that, he needed love. Love was giving until it hurt, wasn't it?

Carissa fished the coins she'd been tipped out of her pocket, her gaze darting from her palm to the boy.

If that's what love was, maybe there wasn't such a thing as too generous.

***

"So you think you can take away my customers, Tara?"

Carissa stifled a sigh as she turned away from the alley to face Avril. It seemed the young man with the wagon was late today. "Hardly, Avril. As yesterday proved"—she winced at the memory—"they more generously tip you than they do me."

Her teal eyes flared with annoyance. "Is that so?"

Carissa turned back to await her ride home. Today had been long, and as much as she tried to remind herself that the little boy had been abused and needed to learn to trust, giving without expecting even a word of gratitude was rather exhausting. And Cook had constantly loomed over her, correcting even the smallest—

Prickles pierced her scalp as her hair was nearly ripped from her head.

Avril bent so close Carissa's eyes misted at the smell on mint on her breath. "When I speak, little Tara, you lis—"

Carissa grasped a fistful of her own hair before yanking it from Avril's grip. "I'd really rather not."

Avril's jaw firmed as her cheeks flushed red as her hair. "You won't take my customers from me."

"I'm not."

"I've seen how the men look at you. They're giving you more today than they were yesterday."

Carissa massaged her left temple. Would this day never end? "Avril, I truly don't mean to take anything from you. I just do what I've been assigned."

Her lips tightened. "I told you the first day that you shouldn't interfere. Don't say I didn't warn you." She spun, apron and dress whirling around her, before she disappeared back into the pub.

Her throat tightened. As 'first mate,' what would Avril do? Have her 'walk the plank?' Whipped?

She shook her head, trying to dispel her darkening imaginings. No. The Cook was a stubborn man with ideas of his own. Surely he wouldn't listen to any lies Avril might spew.

Wheels rattled against stone, and the boy and his horse rounded the corner. A few seconds later, the cart halted in front of her.

He grinned sheepishly, shoulders rising to his ears. "So sorry I'm late, miss. Some of my customers wanted help taking the water jugs into their houses to pour in their barrels, and the jugs were mighty heavy, you see." He straightened, thin torso arching in his version of a chest puff. "Not that it wasn't anything I couldn't handle."

The tension pinching her face melted into a smile. "That's quite alright. I'm simply thankful for the ride. I'm sorry I haven't brought you any bread lately."

"Your smile is more than enough payment for me." He winked before hopping off the cart.

With his assistance, she slipped into the back of the cart, tucking herself against the empty clay water jugs. The boy stretched the tarp tight over the cart opening, and darkness smothered her vision. The cart lurched forward, ramming the back of her head into the clay jug behind her.

Well, things could be worse. Even though the Cook and Avril were terrible and a Reaper was roaming the city and food prices were soaring, at least she had the kindness of others to help smooth the bumps.

And, thankfully, her curse had yet to make an appearance. She massaged her index finger, until she felt the painful prick of her years-old paper cut. Why had her parents claimed she had a curse? How did they know? Or maybe they didn't. Maybe Elon had told them that to keep her close to home, imprisoned between the four walls of her cottage until he came for her when it suited him.

A sting pinched her index finger, and she stopped rubbing at it, though not before she felt the wet, warm trickle of blood. It seemed she'd reopened her cut.

She stared at her bleeding finger, wishing it weren't so dark. A strange idea shoved its way into her head, and the surprise of it yanked the air from her lungs.

No. No, no, no. She had to be mistaken... But if her theory were correct, it would explain everything, especially her parents' overprotectiveness.

She rubbed her thumb across her wet fingertip. It was strange how it'd never scarred—how, though she'd stopped bleeding, her skin had never completely closed.

What if she couldn't heal? What if every scratch and cut on her skin was permanent?

The beat of her heart shuddered through her body. It was ridiculous, impossible. If she were so cursed, that meant each and every cut she sustained could be life-threatening. In fact, it was unlikely she'd live long at all.

She scrubbed a hand over her face, wishing she could scrub her sickening idea away just as easily. No. Perhaps she was being paranoid. Perhaps stress was doing strange things to her mind. Perhaps she was looking for a curse where it wasn't.

The wagon jerked to a halt. She undid the edge of the tarp with trembling fingers and scrambled out. Ah, fresh air. That was all she needed: a dose of open air to purge those dangerous ponderings from her mind.

She molded her lips into a smile for the boy before bidding him goodbye and striding into Viltus' house. The pungent scent of spice and salve greeted her as she shut the door.

"Mew." Something furry arched against her calves.

She scooped the kitten up and clasped it to her chest. Was she truly incapable of healing? Or perhaps she didn't have a curse at all. She nuzzled the kitten's soft fur.

Either way, she'd have her answer soon enough in a few days.