"If you're going to kill me," Ryne said mildly, "then I'd move my chair about three inches to the left. These tiles are imported from Salvatoria."
Ryne tapped the ground with his shoe. Not, Anna thought, that he could gesture with his hands; she'd tied them behind his back with rope. Twice. They'd been calloused and sticky, still sweet from the apples that he'd fed to the horses that morning.
She glanced down at the tiles.
Blue-and-green glass, the colour of a cloudless sea. The tiles formed a six-pointed sun: a nod to Lucia, goddess of light. She glanced around the room, taking in the silk cushions and the smell of incense. A prayer room of sorts?
Anna looked back at the tiles. Ryne was right; they really were very pretty.
Pity she might have to get blood on them.
"Hand-crafted," Ryne added, following her gaze. "Individually carved."
Anna resumed pacing, tapping the knife against her thigh. Ryne's green eyes were unreadable.
"Did I mention bespoke?" he asked. "This mosaic cost a fortune to—"
"Shut-up," Anna said.
"Right." Ryne cleared his throat. "Can I ask one more question?"
She didn't turn. "No."
"It makes sense," Ryne continued, ignoring this. "To kill me."
"That's a statement."
She changed directions, her bare feet whispering over the floor. Ryne leaned forward. He was dressed in a white shirt, his dark hair ruffled. One of the buttons near his throat had come undone to reveal a slash of pale skin.
"Let me rephrase," Ryne said. "Why haven't you killed me yet?"
His voice was calm, as if they were discussing what to have for dinner, or whether the roses were blooming in the garden yet. Anna flipped the knife.
"If I kill you," she said evenly, "then the crown reverts to Eris. And as much as I would enjoy murdering the entire male Delafort line — and trust me, I would — I don't have that sort of time on my hands."
Ryne leaned back. "Genocide does take work."
"Your family would know," she said.
A heavy silence fell. Her ears felt hot, and she could hear a faint, distant ringing. The blade was slick in her hand. She thought of wading into the warm summer stream behind her cottage, of pulling up a trout with her bare hands and tickling its stomach until it went slack in her hands; of slitting its throat.
Ryne was looking at her patiently. Expectantly.
She swallowed.
"Why?" Anna asked.
She didn't need to specify. Ryne looked at the incense — smoking lightly, curling around the empty grate like grey fingers — and let out a breath.
"I couldn't let you leave," he said.
The metal of the knife was so cold that it felt hot. "You could have killed me. It would have been kinder."
"You're a queen," Ryne said. "Dead queens become martyrs."
"You could have locked me in the dungeons, then."
He met her gaze. "You would have escaped."
This, Anna reflected, was true. Still. She could feel her heart knocking hard against her chest; the air stuck to her ribs like honey.
She took a step closer. "You've enjoyed the last few months, haven't you? Parading me around in front of your court. The fearsome Nightweaver Queen, reduced to a trained circus monkey that claps whenever you command it to."
Ryne's jaw tightened. For a bizarre moment, Anna thought that he might apologize, but then he looked at her and said, "Dragon."
"What?"
"Not a trained monkey," Ryne said. "A dragon. You're far too violent to be a monkey."
Her grip on the knife tightened. "Answer the question, Delafort."
"Which was?"
She took another step. "Did you enjoy it?"
Her voice was slow. Each word measured. When Ryne met her gaze, his eyes were the colour of the thickest part of the woods, the deep green that rarely saw sunshine.
"Yes," he said. "I did."
A wave of anger — so swift, so stunning in its intensity — punched her in the gut. She wanted to push him. To shake him. She thought of the last few months. Of floating in a dreamless existence, desperate for a visit from a man that she didn't love. Of Sophie and June and Henry, somewhere in Wynterlynn, waiting for her to arrive. Of all the Nightweavers that were killed while she was locked in a Tower.
What had Nyxos said to her?
I want you to take back Wynterlynn.
The knife twitched in her hand. She forced herself not to move.
Eris is worse.
She thought it again and again, trying to burn the words into her heart. If you kill him, Eris will get the crown. Eris is worse. Eris is worse.
"Ah," Ryne said. "You want to hurt me."
He didn't look surprised, only mildly curious, as if discovering that a button was missing on his coat. Something messy tangled in her chest.
"I don't want to hurt you," Anna said. "I want to destroy you."
His mouth curled. "Go ahead."
Anna took a step closer. They were inches apart now, her knees pressing into his knees; his apple-sweet breath fanning her face. "I could do it, you know." She pressed the cold blade to his neck. "There's a pressure point — just here — that would render you unconscious. Nobody would hear you scream."
Ryne's eyes were dark. "Do you always play with your food?"
"Bad habit." She perched on his lap, running the blade down his throat. "Don't worry, Delafort. I have no intention of biting you."
"Pity," Ryne murmured. "I liked it the first time around."
The knife paused. "I only slept with you to get the Map."
"But you enjoyed it."
She drew back. "I tolerated it."
Ryne's mouth curled higher. "Liar."
"If you think I enjoyed bedding you," Anna said slowly, "then you're delusional."
"Really?" His eyes were bright with fever. "You didn't enjoy any of it?"
"No."
Ryne leaned forward, his mouth ghosting over her jaw. "Not even the part where I kissed your neck? Just here?"
She half-closed her eyes. "No."
A slow, rhythmic throbbing began in the pit of her stomach, a hot flower unfurling its petals. When Ryne spoke, his voice was low in her ear."What about the part where I pushed you into the wall, fisted your skirt in my hands, and made you beg me to keep going?"
She swallowed.
The knife in her hand was steady, pressed to the base of Ryne's throat. He leaned forward, and a single bead of blood trickled down his neck. Pleasure and pain, she thought, all ravelled into one. She shifted in his lap.
"Listen to me carefully, Delafort," she said. "You are a power-hungry, sociopathic tyrant. You stole my kingdom. You've hunted my people. And now, you've locked me in a tower. Even the idea of you makes me sick."
Ryne's eyes were starless skies. "I think we both know that's not true."
It took a moment for the words to penetrate her brain. Anna laughed. "What, do you think I'm in love with you or something?"
He lifted a shoulder. "Your words."
She shook her head. "The fever's addled your brain, Delafort. I despise you."
Something odd went across his face. Ryne looked at the pointed star on the floor — at the symbol of Lucia — and his throat bobbed. When he spoke, his voice was low. Surprisingly serious.
"The two aren't mutually exclusive," he said.
Something slithered down her spine. "You're wrong."
Ryne tipped his head back. "Then stick a knife into my throat and prove it. Show me that you hate me."
His green eyes glittered with challenge. Anna pushed the blade deeper — deep enough that it almost broke skin — trying to steady her breathing. She'd gutted fish before. This would be just like that. Relax the trout, then kill it. Simple.
The knife trembled.
"Ah," Ryne said softly. "And there it is. You can't bring yourself to do it, can you?"
She bit her cheek. "Quiet."
"Poor little Cidarius." His voice was goading. "Finally has me tied up in a chair, a knife at my throat, and she can't even bring herself to—"
"I said, quiet."
The knife pushed deeper. Ryne sucked in a breath. She could feel his heart speeding up, slamming against her chest, and something about the sensation sent a sick wave of pleasure through her. When Ryne met her gaze, his eyes were fever-bright.
"I have tried," Ryne said, his voice low, "not to think about you. I have tried to distract myself, to distance myself, to do anything else. But I find myself drawn to you. It's impossible to feel otherwise."
Her lungs were raw. "You don't mean that."
Ryne's laugh was bitter. "It's not a feeling that I enjoy. Trust me."
Her mind was whirling. "You made me fall in love with Isaac. You made me—"
"And I hated it," Ryne said. "Every second that it was happening — every time that you looked at him — I hated it. And then I despised myself for feeling that way." Twin red spots burned high on his cheekbones. "Is that what you want to hear?"
Her throat felt tight. "I hate you."
She wasn't sure whether she was saying it to convince him, or to remind herself. It hardly mattered. Ryne's face was unreadable.
"Come here," he said.
His voice was cold authority. Anna shuddered. She should have hated it — wanted to hate it — but she was leaning in, the knife warm in her hand. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to kill him. She wanted, she just wanted, and the emotion ripped through her with the force of cannon fire, shattering her from within—
An alarm sounded.
One bell. Two. Footsteps pounded through the corridor outside, accompanied by the sound of male shouting. Anna drew back, her body stilling.
"What is that?"
Ryne tensed. "Cidarius. You need to untie me."
"But—"
"Now."
Anna hesitated. The footsteps drew closer, and she bit her lip. The knife was warm and clammy in her hands. She was about to say something when the door flew open, revealing a tall, panting figure.
"Your Majesty—"
Chavis halted in the doorway. His sandy blond hair was ruffled, and there was purple jam smeared at the corner of his mouth, as if he'd run from breakfast. The young guard's eyes flicked between Anna — perched on Ryne's lap, a knife pressed to his throat — and Ryne, who was tied to a chair. The guard's hand crept to his sword.
"Your Majesty?" he asked.
"It's alright, Chavis." Ryne's voice was calm. "Annalise and I were just having a little chat."
Chavis's eyes flicked between them. "You— I—"
"Hello, Chavis." Anna untangled herself, hopping to her feet. "You have some jam on your mouth. Just there."
She tapped the corner of her mouth. Chavis stared.
"You're meant to be in the Tower."
She shrugged. "Fancied a change of scenery."
"But I..." He looked at Ryne, his shoulders slumping. "Shall I restrain her, Your Majesty?"
Anna smirked. "Oh, please do. This should be fun."
She crossed her arms, wiggling her fingers. Silver tendrils unfurled, creeping along the floor like insidious vines. Chavis took a healthy step backward. Ryne — who looked less than amused at her little display — sighed.
"Quite alright, Chavis," he said. "Although if it's not too much trouble, I could use some assistance with my hands."
The guard blinked. "Your hands?"
"Yes," Ryne said. "The ropes are beginning to dig into my wrists."
"Oh. Oh."
The guard darted forward, fumbling with the rope. Anna lifted an eyebrow. Nyxos's Snare — not an easy knot to undo. Chavis must have come to the same conclusion because he swore, sawing at it with his sword.
Ryne cast his eyes skyward. "Do try not to chop off my hands, Chavis. I'm rather attached to them."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Another few seconds of sawing. Ryne sighed.
"A knife, perhaps?"
"Right." Chavis patted his pockets. "Er. I don't actually have one."
"Here," Anna said. "Use mine."
She chucked it across the room. Chavis made a high-pitched yelping sound, his hand flying out to protect himself. Miraculously, he caught it. The bells grew louder as Chavis snapped the ropes, letting them fall to the floor in a tangle.
"Right." Ryne rose, massaging his wrists. "Talk to me."
Chavis shifted his sword. "We're under attack."
"Yes." Ryne's voice was dry. "I'd assumed as much. Nightweavers?"
Anna looked at him sharply. Chavis shook his head.
"We don't know," Chavis said. "But they're not attacking the castle, Your Majesty." He crossed to the window, yanking back the curtains. "I wanted to send a team of men to help, but Aedyon told me to wait until we had your approval. Not," he added hurriedly, "that it's my place to make decisions — I know Aedyon's your Commander of the Guard, and I'm just temporarily filling in for Webb as Captain — but I just thought that—"
"Chavis." Ryne's voice was patient. "Slow down. What are you talking about?"
He swallowed. "Grim's Marketplace, Your Majesty. The whole town is on fire."