into the cell so hard that she slammed into the back wall. Reeling she slumped to the floor beneath the dungeon window, an opening about the height of a palm that spanned most of the cell wall. Lilac’s father had once told her it had been carved to bring airflow to the prisoners.
The guard carrying Garin shoved past Lilac, tossing him to the floor in the room opposite Adelaide. His head smacked the stone floor with a loud crack, the arrows still buried deep in his flesh. Lilac stifled a sob.
“Something the matter?” Sinclair’s voice drawled lazily in her ear.
“Is he…”
“Alive? I mean, in the undead sense, sure. But not for long.”
Sinclair nodded to the guard behind her, who grabbed onto her arm. Grinning, he approached the facedown vampire. He placed his foot upon Garin’s back and grasped the arrow shaft closest his heart. Leaning over the vampire body, Sinclair shoved downward and gave it a violent twist.
“Stop!” Lilac lunged forward, straining against the guard. “Adelaide,” she pleaded, tearing her gaze away and peering through the cell opposite him—but the witch only watched Sinclair in stoic silence.
Everyone, including the other malnourished prisoners, glanced questioningly at Lilac’s outburst.
“They haven’t done anything wrong,” she blurted. “Garin hasn’t done anything but help me on my way to Paimpont. I’d ordered him to.”
“Blasphemy,” Sinclair uttered, gripping the arrow tighter and narrowing his eyes. “You’re clearly a traitor—”
“No,” Lilac insisted angrily through her tears. “I only… I wanted to be a more suitable queen. And my visit to the witch—”
“The name’s Ophelia,” she snapped from her cell.
“My visit with Ophelia was only to benefit the kingdom. To benefit you. I want to be an obedient spouse to you, Sinclair,” she lied. “One you won’t be ashamed to walk beside.”
“That’s odd,” Sinclair replied dubiously. “Considering you’ve despised me since the day we met.”
Wrong. She’d disliked him since the day they met; she’d despised him after he’d assaulted her. She hated taking on such a subservient pretense, even in her lies… but she’d do anything to save Garin.
“Despite what you might think of me, I’m not stupid, Sinclair,” she explained slowly, aware of the witch’s eyes now on her. “Though the news of giving up my role as monarch wasn’t easy to hear, I agree it would be better to reign beside you than not at all. In Paimpont, Ophelia created a draught for me. To get rid of my Darkling Tongue for good.”
Sinclair watched as Lilac pulled the small vial from her pocket. Every eye in the room shifted from her to the golden liquid, glinting in the torchlight.
“That’s not possible. You can’t—” Scoffing, he spun to exchange glances with the small crowd of guards and chained onlookers, but no one else seemed to share his amusement. “Can she do that?”
Fingers shaking, Lilac took a deep breath and pulled on the tiny cork stopper. She froze, every hair on the back of her neck raising. Despite everything, despite all the obstacles she’d barely scraped past for the measley remedy… Suddenly, the last thing she wanted to do was take the potion. She knew deep down, and perhaps it’s what she should’ve known all along, that using her ability to help Brocéliande would mean more to her than salvaging her own reputation.
But at this point, she’d do anything to save Garin’s life. Even if it meant sidling up to the real kingdom’s monster.
In one fluid motion, she raised it to her lips and swallowed the contents in one gulp. It tasted like strawberries and sunlight, made the soles of her feet tingle hot—then cold. She shut her eyes, waiting for something more tangible to happen. When nothing did, she reopened them in confusion.
Sinclair was staring hard at her. Eventually, his expression softened. “Incredible. A show of faith from my bristling bitch of a bride.”
What a fucking compliment.
Lilac squared her shoulders. “As I said, the vampire was only involved because, upon meeting, I ordered him to take me to Paimpont. It was either he’d do that, or I would have him swiftly executed. He helped me, and for that, I’d like to let him live. Both he and the witch,” she added hastily, feeling Ophelia’s furious glare.
Sinclair’s hand hesitated on the arrow shaft. But instead of thrusting the Hawthorne deeper and into Garin’s heart as she’d feared, Sinclair dug his heel into the vampire’s back for leverage and yanked both out.
“I’ll spare him an immediate death. He should wake in a few minutes’ time. Luckily, witch,” he said,