A Shadow in the Ember (Flesh and Fire 1)

Or what if I could? What if this ember of life had been placed in me for another reason? But what could it be? And what would happen to those who lived here until we figured it out? There’d be more attacks, and maybe, eventually, Kolis himself would arrive. The King of Gods would come after Nyktos. I had a sickening feeling that he already had in the past. And whether or not Nyktos believed me, I cared about what happened to him—what happened to the people here.

What were my options? Find a way to turn myself over to Kolis? He would kill me, and that would possibly hasten the death of the mortal realm if what Aios said was true. It would only buy the Shadowlands extra time. Maybe. This wasn’t being stuck between a rock and a hard place. This was being crushed by both.

But nothing would come from lying in a bed that wasn’t even mine.

Head aching, I sat up and winced at the tenderness. It had been a while since I had engaged in such activities, and it had never been like that. I looked down, biting my lip at the puckered, puncture wounds on my breast as I gingerly prodded the skin at my throat. It too was tender but not painful. A fine shiver rolled through me as I started to rise, only then noticing the robe laid out at the foot of the bed. I stared at it in disbelief. Nyktos must’ve retrieved it. And I…

I smacked my hands over my face. That hurt. But what hurt worse was his godsdamned thoughtfulness even now. And I had planned to take that kindness and twist it. I had planned to kill him. And it didn’t even seem to matter if I would’ve gone through with it or not. It was the intent that counted.

Wetness gathered behind my tightly closed eyes as tears burned the back of my throat, a sob filling my chest. I will not cry, I told myself. I will not cry. Crying solved nothing. All it would do was make my headache worse. I needed to pull myself together and get up and figure out what the hell to do now. I focused on Sir Holland’s breathing instructions until the pressure behind my eyes lessened, and the burning, choking feeling receded. Then I got up and slipped on the robe. I forced one foot in front of the other, leaving behind Nyktos’ empty, cold chamber that had briefly been full and warm.

I had just stepped out of my bathing chamber after making quick use of it when Paxton knocked on the door. The young man stood beside several pails of steaming water, his head bowed so his sheet of blond hair hid most of his face. “His Highness thought you might enjoy a warm bath,” he said, hands clasped together. “So, I brought up hot water.”

Surprised by the gesture for a multitude of reasons, and unsure of how Nyktos had known that I’d returned to my chamber, I almost needed to smack my hands over my face again. I didn’t. Instead, I opened the door wider.

“That was very kind of him—and you, to bring all of these up here.”

“He carried most,” Paxton said, and my brows lifted as I popped my head out the door. The hall was empty. The young man peeked at me, and I caught a glimpse of deep brown eyes. “He had to go to court, Your Highness.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” I replied before I could remember what Bele had instructed.

“You will be his Consort. That is how I should refer to you.”

My throat dried. Paxton obviously hadn’t heard. What would he tell the people here?

Paxton’s chin went up a notch. “And you are a Princess, right? That’s what Aios told me.”

“I am.” A wry grin tugged at my lips despite everything. “But only for one percent of my life.”

That drew a quick, curious glance from Paxton as he picked up two pails. “You were born a Princess?”

“Yes.” I reached for one of the pails.

“Then you’re a Princess for a hundred percent of your life,” he said. “And I got the pails. You don’t have to carry them.”

“I can carry them.”

“I’ve got them.” He eased past me, carrying the pails to the bathing chamber. He was careful to keep the buckets level and unaffected by his limp.

It was hard to just stand there and do nothing when I had two functioning arms. “How about I just pick up one, then?”

“I’d rather you not.”

I already had the pail in hand. His sigh when he looked up and spotted me was quite impressive. “How long have you lived here, Paxton?” I asked, changing the subject.

“For the last ten years,” he answered, his grip on the pail quite steady for such small arms. “Since I was about five. Before that, I lived in Irelone.”