The War of Two Queens (Blood and Ash 4)

I hadn’t taken my eyes off her for longer than it took to blink. Bad shit came when I did. A sense of surrealness—or a panicked fear that this was some sort of hallucination. It had happened when I stepped into the adjoining bathing chamber to relieve myself and make use of the razor and cream that had been brought in with the water. It had been dark. No electricity. The dim light from the bedchamber did nothing to shatter the darkness. For a moment, I thought I was back there in that cell. I felt the shackles at my wrists and ankles. My throat. I’d locked up, one hand on the sink basin, and the other clutching the handle of the razor.

That was how Poppy had found me.

She’d brought the lamp inside, placing it by the vanity. Nothing was said. She’d just wrapped her arms around my waist, pressing herself against my back, and she’d remained that way until the panicked fear abated. Until I’d finished shaving away the itchy bristles of growth.

I couldn’t believe that she was here.

I couldn’t believe I was here. Pieced back together. Almost whole. My memories had gaps. Dark voids caused by the bloodlust. But I was sitting in a hip tub, nestled in the corner of a chamber, under what I could’ve sworn was a painting of the Skotos Mountains.

While Poppy had gently coaxed me into the warm, clean water, insisting on being the one to wash away the filth, she’d shared with me all that had occurred. The events in Massene. The old woman with the stolen Primal essence. What had gone down in Oak Ambler. Tawny’s strange recovery and the truth to who Vikter was. What she’d borne witness to beneath Castle Redrock and at the Temple of Theon. What Isbeth had told her about her father. The reason Malik had remained. I knew some of it. Some, I didn’t. Much of it left my damn chest aching, and anger simmering in my gut, ruining the thick, herb-laden stew that had been brought in.

I hated the guilt I saw skittering across her face. The lingering pain. I knew my Queen could stand on her own. I was here because of her strength. Her courage. But I should’ve been there to shoulder some of the weight I knew she bore.

She hadn’t been alone, though.

I had to keep reminding myself of that. It was the only thing keeping me from descending into a different kind of bloodlust. She had support. Kieran had been with her. As well as others, but Kieran…yeah, knowing she had him was how I kept the building rage in check.

How proud I was of her—of all she had accomplished—also helped. Poppy was fucking extraordinary.

And I had been nothing but a monster chained to a wall when she came for me, unable to do a damn thing to help assist in our escape. Pressure settled on my chest. I’d been a liability. The dangerous, weak link.

Fuck. That was a hard truth to swallow.

“You know,” Poppy said, drawing me from my thoughts as she lowered my right hand into the water. “Those breeches you destroyed?” Her startlingly strange and beautiful eyes lifted to mine as she picked up my left arm and set about wiping the suds away. “They were the only pair of pants I have.”

Some of the tightness eased from my chest. No doubt she had sensed the tangled emotions behind where my thoughts had gone. “I would say I’m sorry, but I’d be lying.”

A wry grin appeared as she drew the washcloth over my upper arm. “I appreciate the honesty.”

I watched her head tilt. The wine-hued strands slipped to the side, revealing the puckered, red puncture wounds on her throat. The sight of them caused a dual reaction, which resulted in my head and dick being completely at odds with each other.

Something I wasn’t entirely accustomed to since they were usually on the same page when it came to Poppy.

“Had you ever heard of viktors before?” she asked.

“No, but given the way Vikter was with you, it makes sense.” The man had behaved as if he’d been Poppy’s father and hadn’t been all that impressed by me. Made me wonder exactly how much the viktors knew and saw.

“Tawny said that he was proud of me,” she whispered.

I stilled. “Did you think he wasn’t?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice hoarse. “I hoped so.”

“He had to be, whether or not he knew what his purpose was as a viktor or not,” I insisted quietly. “There’s no way he couldn’t have been.”

She nodded.

I leaned over to press a kiss to the top of her forehead. “That man—or whatever he was—loved you as if you were his own flesh and blood. He was proud of you.”

Poppy blinked rapidly, giving me a soft smile. “Sit back. I’m not done with you.”