Cold Queen - K Webster Page 0,30
the plate away from her while also yanking the woman closer.
“What. Is. This?” I demand, my tone punctuated with white-hot rage.
“Her meal, your highness,” the woman utters.
I shove away her hand and point at the plate. The room has gone silent as everyone watches the odd exchange. “Is that enough food for you?”
The woman glowers at me. “No.”
“No, what?”
“No, your highness.”
I pick up the plate and sniff it before dropping it with a heavy clang. “Eat it.”
The woman’s eyes widen. “I beg your pardon?”
Baring my teeth at her, I lean closer. “I want you to eat everything on that plate.”
She glances over at Elzira as though she’ll spare her from my wrath.
“Don’t look at her,” I seethe. “They don’t call me the Truth Seeker for no reason, woman. Eat the goddamn pastries.”
“S-Sir, I c-can’t eat the—”
I pick up one of the pastries and thrust it at her. “Eat it.”
She shakes her head, defying me, as she stumbles away from me. I rise from the table and prowl after her with the pastry.
“Why won’t you eat it, woman?”
“It is for the queen,” she hisses. “I have already eaten.”
“I want you to hear something,” I growl. “Three pastries for your queen is an insult. It is treasonous because you are underfeeding her. Slowly trying to kill your queen.”
The woman chokes on her words. “N-No, it is what she always eats.”
I pin her with a cold glare. “Today it is what you eat.”
Her eyes flick over to the exit, as though she’ll get far from me. I dare her to try.
“I can’t eat it,” she says. “I don’t like those pastries.”
“Put it in your mouth or so help me I’ll kill you where you stand.”
The woman shakily takes the pastry and makes a face at it. As if the pastry has personally wronged her. Her eyes dart to the doorway again. She brings it to her mouth and then sniffs. Panic contorts her chubby features into a sour expression. Rather than taking a bite, she tosses it at me and runs past me.
She’s barely made it three steps before I’ve unsheathed my sword and swung it at her.
Thwack!
Thud.
The slamming of her heavy body onto the stone floor echoes loudly in the dining room. Her severed head rolls a few feet before stopping, the open eyes of the woman staring back at me. I shove my bloody sword back into its sheath before turning to regard everyone in the room. The servants gape at me, Cavon narrows his eyes at me, and Danser smirks.
It’s Elzira whose eyes I catch and hold.
Surprise. Gratitude. Hunger.
She smiles at me and I smile back.
“Yashka!” I bark out, my voice carrying out of the dining room toward the kitchen.
The man waddles in, his face red and covered in sweat from cooking. “Yes, your highness?”
“Queen Whitestone would like one of your hearty, delicious meals. Not whatever it is her servant just tried to serve her.” I look pointedly at the remaining servers. “Any of you try to feed her and it’ll be your heads next. Yashka is to bring her her meals. No one else.”
We spend the rest of our meal discussing the situation of The Damned.
And my queen eats every damn morsel on her plate.
Things are changing around here.
The Truth Seeker isn’t done yet.
Elzira
Ryke’s man, Danser, leads the way down the corridor to a room protected by two guards. At least no one will get in to hurt my sister. Both men look fierce and dedicated to their king, unlike the spineless coward from yesterday. Danser fishes out a key from his pocket and unlocks the door. As soon as it opens, I hear her voice.
“You monsters better let me see my sister,” she screeches, pummeling Danser in front of me. “Or else I will kill you all!”
My heart swells at hearing my protective sister chance death by confronting one of Ryke’s most lethal men. The smile on my face falls when I look past him at the fire flickering in the fireplace.
“Yanna!” I cry out, shoving past him.
My sister lets out a pained sob upon hearing me and falls into my arms. Her embrace is tight, as though she refuses to part with me ever again.
“Oh, sister, darling,” I coo. “I’m here. Don’t worry.”
It’s me who worries, though.
The fire.
The sichee crawlers.
“Are you ill?” I ask, pulling away to palm her warm, rosy cheeks.
Her brows pull together in confusion. “No,” she breathes. “I’m furious that they’ve separated us. How are you? Did the man get you your tonics? Have