Rule of Wolves (King of Scars #2) - Leigh Bardugo Page 0,193

belong to romantic ninnies.” She raised her hand and let her fingertips trace the line of his beautiful jaw. He closed his eyes. “We would go on, you and I. If I couldn’t be queen, you would find a way to win this battle and save this country. You would make a sheltering place for my people. You would march and bleed and crack terrible jokes until you had done all you said you would do. I suppose that’s why I love you.”

His eyes flew open and his face lit in an extraordinary grin. “All Saints, say it again.”

“I will not.”

“You must.”

“I’m the queen. I must do nothing but please myself.”

“Would it please you to kiss me?”

It would. And she did, drawing him up to her, feeling the stubble at his jaw, the soft curl of his hair behind his ear, and at last, after all these long days of wanting, his witty, brilliant, perfect mouth. Silence fell around them and Zoya’s head emptied of fear and worry and anything but the warm press of his lips.

When the kiss broke, he rested his forehead against hers.

“You do realize you just referred to yourself as the queen. That means you agreed.”

“I am going to kill you.”

“So long as you kiss me again before you do.”

She obliged him.

47

NINA

NINA COULDN’T THINK STRAIGHT. Is this a game? Is he toying with me?

She was a tangle of anger and hope and confusion. Get your head together, Zenik, she chastised herself. If you ever needed to keep your wits about you, this is the time.

Easier said than done. She was fairly sure she’d just seen Nikolai Lantsov—or maybe not Lantsov, since he’d admitted to being a bastard—give up his crown to Zoya Nazyalensky. Who was also a dragon. And possibly a Saint. And Rasmus had called for a lasting truce and a treaty with Ravka. But why? Did he truly believe in peace? Was this all some elaborate ruse, some part of his feud with Jarl Brum?

Or was something else at play here altogether? Nina had seen Hanne’s body crumpled on the ground. But what had she really seen? She remembered Hanne’s hands moving swiftly over her face, drawing hair from her own head. I’ve been practicing, she’d said.

Do not hope, Nina. Do not dare to hope for this.

All was silence on the boat ride back to Leviathan’s Mouth, the unease of the Fjerdan soldiers and officers palpable. She could feel Brum’s anger radiating from him, the fear of the drüskelle who had failed him in the audience chamber.

Joran looked nearly happy, his face serene, as if he’d finally found some kind of peace for the first time. He had been the first to speak, to declare for Zoya and for an end to war. Would any of the others have dared to be first? Or only the boy full of regret, desperate to do right, to sacrifice everything as penance to the Saints? If Nina had sought her vengeance and taken Joran’s life, if Hanne hadn’t stopped her, what might have happened in Os Kervo?

Nina was less sure of what she sensed from Prince Rasmus. He kept glancing at her, and his expression was one she could almost believe was true concern. She couldn’t stop herself from studying his profile, the color of his eyes—were the differences she thought she saw there real or imagined? She felt like she was coming undone.

They docked at one of the piers, and the prince strode toward the command center with Joran beside him. “Come along,” he said to Nina.

“I would have a word, Your Highness,” said Brum, his anger barely leashed.

“Then you may come along too.”

The command center was much like the rest of the structures on Leviathan—all military utility, stocked with maps and equipment. Crates of gear had been stacked in neat aisles, maps and tide charts were hung on the tent’s canvas siding, though the rest of the walls had been left open.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to have a rest, Your Highness?” Brum asked, seeking to draw attention to the prince’s frailty.

“I think not. I feel quite well.”

“Of course, you were not on the field today.”

“No, I wasn’t. I have not had my share of riding or fresh air or battle in this life. I know you think me the lesser because of it.”

“I never said—”

“You’ve said enough. You’ve called me weakling and whelp.”

Brum sputtered. “I never did. I—”

“Think,” the prince said gently, and again Nina found herself leaning forward, wondering. His voice sounded