Chapter 19

Chapter

Nineteen

ALYX

N ighttime is my favourite time. The darkness shields us assassins like a cloak. It’s when we do our best work, moving between shadows and eavesdropping on whispered private conversations, and here, in the palace, it is no different.

To everyone else, I am Princess Alyx, the new, perfect queen-to-be, and that restricts me slightly. They all think I’m dumb and easy to manipulate, but they don’t want to speak outright treason in front of me. A coup would change everything, and even an airhead would recognise conversations of that as a threat to her husband-to-be. As soon as the sun set, Princess Alyx went to bed and assassin Alyx came out to play.

I’m still annoyed about what Joha said. He practically accused me of being a whore, which I have no problem with. Many of my friends are whores and it’s honest work. They have to work harder than most to survive, but it was the way he said it, like I was dirty and I had used my body to get where I am, not trained for years to make my way to the top. Yes, it infuriated me. I don’t even know why. I never usually care about others’ opinions of me, especially not a spoiled puppet prince. However, Joha has looked at me with nothing but awe and a healthy dose of fear since the moment he met me . . . but today, he looked at me differently.

I don’t like that, which annoys me even more.

Hence, I’m stalking around in the dark, hoping to kill someone to let off some tension. Feelings are confusing and downright annoying, but killing is much easier, so I’ll stick to that. His Majesty can go fuck himself. I’ll complete this job and get everything I want.

It doesn’t matter what he thinks of me as I do it. I have been called worse, much worse.

Words wash away, as does blood.

I focus on my work, sneaking around the palace, hoping someone is foolish enough to show their head so I can cut it off and throw it in that smug king’s face and watch that disgust transform back into fear. Petty? Maybe.

However, I don’t seem to be in luck. Everyone is being good little citizens tucked into their beds, bar the guards. I do find two fucking in the stables, others playing a game of yu-long, and some drinking when they should be guarding, but that just makes my job easier.

I’m running across a roof, my annoyance pounding in my head to the beat of my heart, as I head back to my new quarters that are attached to the king’s by a small bridge when I hear it.

I cock my head, watching a figure dance smoothly across the packed dirt floor, followed by the sounds of grunts and a sword hitting a target.

The king’s palace and the adjoining queen’s are at the very back of Moonshadow Palace, tucked away from everything else, so there is no excuse for anyone to be here, especially not so deep. The stone gives way to dirt and then to trees beyond. Carved into that dirt is a rough practise arena I had barely noticed until now.

It’s not one for the guards. No, this one is much bigger.

Targets line the arena’s edge near the trees, with arrows shot perfectly at their centres. More hang from their branches, with gauges cut into the wood. Some are scattered on the dirt ground, forgotten and chopped to pieces, but it is the man in the centre who is captivating, and I do not look away from him as I crouch on the roof. The moon shines down on him, bathing him in its light like a lover’s caress. Gone are the royal robes, and in their place are leather trousers and an untucked, loose black shirt. His hair is wound on the top of his head, his feet are bare and filthy from the dirt, and his muscles bulge as he swings the giant longsword in a practised, perfect arc.

Crouching lower, I remain enthralled. I cannot stop watching him.

The king is practising with a sword, and as I eye him, I realise two things.

One, he is very good with it, fast and precise. It is clear he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Two, he is angry and wants to be alone.

I called him the puppet king and practically told him he was dumb and useless, but as I watch, his expression transforms into one of fury as he swings the sword above his head and then down in a slash before bringing it back up in a horizontal line across his face to protect from an imaginary blow. My lips tilt in a smile as his back leg slides backward and he leaps into the air, spinning in an impressive display as he spars alone, thrusting and cutting with his sword. If he had an opponent, I have no doubt they would be on the ground, yelling or dead.

Flinging his sword into the air, he catches it with his other hand, twisting it around his body as he spins, and with a roar wild enough to shake the mountains, he brings it down into the dirt with a clank. He kneels there, panting and covered in a sheen of sweat, his impressive muscles tightening under his clothing.

I thought him weak and useless, but hiding under his royal fa?ade is a smart, calculating swordsman.

I was wrong, which never happens, and I cannot stop myself from silently dropping to a crouch behind the palace. When I straighten, he spins, his eyes widening as he holds the sword loosely at his side. We stare at each other, both shocked and wary.

I should have known better than to underestimate anyone.

If he can fight this well, then why didn’t he the day he was attacked in the Lowers? It’s what circles through my thoughts as I watch him, his strong jawline clenching as he waits for me to speak. He lifts his sword slightly, as if anticipating an attack and ready to protect himself.

Smart man. An assassin only comes to you in the dark for one thing—death.

“You look angry, Your Majesty,” I remark, tilting my head as I run my eyes over him brazenly. He jerks, not expecting that. As far as decorum and rules go, he is practically undressed. His loose blouse gapes open almost down to his navel, showing his impressive pecs and abs. His trousers are tight enough that I can see a bulge running down one leg, and I purposely bite my lip before meeting his eyes. “Very, very . . . angry.”

“Go away, Alyx.” It’s a command, and it almost sounds cruel. He is trying to brush me off, but I won’t allow that. I like this brazen king. I like him rough and real. There are no robes, perfect fa?ade, or dumb smile.

This is the true Joha, I realise.

“What? Don’t want your new whore queen seeing you like this? Don’t you know whores like our men sweaty and feral? It makes it that much more fun when we break them,” I taunt.

His face tightens. Gone is the young, clean-faced boy pretending to be king. In his place is a stern, dark-eyed man, bristling with anger and unleashed fury. His body vibrates with it, making him a weapon down to the one he is holding.

The part of me that craves danger screams for more, for me to taste his blade and find out just how well he can fight.

“You really do not know when to stop, do you?” he growls.

“I have never been accused of being shy.” I smirk as I pull my sword and twirl it effortlessly in the air, stepping around him. He follows me, moving to keep me in his line of sight.

Good.

“This might even be fun,” I murmur, “though I don’t expect you’ll be much of a challenge. You’re such a pretty spoiled king. I bet you practiced on servants who were not allowed to fight back. That sword”—I nod at it—“has not even tasted blood.” Lifting mine into the air, I look boldly into his eyes before running my tongue along the edge of my blade, smearing it with my blood as it cuts my tongue. “Mine? It’s tasted blood more times than I can count.”

“You are trying to make me angry.” He frowns, calculation flashing in his eyes. “You want me to attack first, but it will not work.” His eyebrows lift. “I will not spar with you.”

“Why not?” I flip my sword, holding it to my shoulder so the point is facing behind me. “We both know you need to burn off steam, and my hunt is unsuccessful tonight, so let’s have some fun. No rules. You’re not the king, and I’m not an assassin. We are just two people ready to push their bodies to the limit. Unless, of course, you’re scared?”

It does the trick. No matter how smart a man is, he can’t take a blow to his ego like that. Instead of rushing me like I expected, though, he plays it smart, and my estimation of this man’s restraint and talent goes up.

He does, however, bring his sword up and slide his back foot backwards in a defensive position. “Fine. If you wish to fight, Alyx, then let us fight.”

“Thank fuck, I thought we were going to talk all day.” I take the initiative and race at him, darting left and right as his eyes track me, trying to figure out where I will attack. Just as I reach him, I move left, and he brings his sword up, but I spin to the right, slashing across his arm and stopping behind him. I see his blouse gape from the sharp edge of my weapon as I whisper in his ear, feeling him stiffen.

“Is that all you have, Your Majesty? I’m disappointed.” He spins, and I step back in time to deflect his attack.

Laughing, I deflect his blows, and using my speed and strength, I slam my sword into him and push him back. He stumbles, his chest heaving as he watches me. He spins his blade, bringing it up.

“Enough talking,” he mutters.

“Fine with me.” I grin, and this time, I wait for him to attack.

He doesn’t disappoint. He feints left and then right before hitting me head-on, and then there is no time for talking or teasing. We dance across the arena, our swords singing as they come together. He’s stronger, but I’m faster and practically feral. He’s still clinging to the way sword fighting should be won and using the rules, but I don’t. I kick dirt at him, blinding him as I parry until he stumbles back, and I finally land another hit on his side.

Rules are made to be broken, and playing by them does not keep you alive. It just means you are a righteous fool when you die.

I would rather be alive and playing dirty.

Laughing, I smack his ass with the flat of my sword, not wanting to cut that perfect, round muscle. “Stop holding back. You won’t hurt me, so give in to your anger,” I taunt as I circle him. He pants angrily, watching me, but he’s still restrained. “Let it fuel you, fill you. Think of everything they call you. Fool. Spoiled. Useless. Puppet. Take it and use it. Here, there are no rules, and no one is watching. It’s just us, so fight!”

I slash at his side again, and he snarls, slamming the pommel of his sword at me.

I dodge it with a laugh. “What are you so afraid of, Your Majesty? That you’ll like drawing blood? That you won’t be able to go back to that perfect, little box you put yourself in? Don’t be so na?ve and weak. In this world, it is kill or be killed, something you know well. They are coming for you, and here you are, still holding back. Why should I bother helping a fool onto a throne?”

His eyes darken, and he bares his teeth in a feral smile. “No assassin can hand me my throne.”

“Yet that is what I am doing, is it not? What, did Daddy not give his spoiled boy everything on a platter, so now he’s angry?” I pout as I taunt him.

Mentioning his father gets the reaction I wanted, and I have to duck the sword I did not even see coming. He flung it at me like a dagger.

I jerk my head up, my eyes wide. “That was rude,” I say, but he’s sprinting at me.

I fling myself forward, rolling under his attack before getting to my feet. I see him slide across the dirt and grab his sword before he comes to a stop. His head snaps up, his eyes locked on me.

Oh, this just got good. It’s about time.

I do not even have time to think as he comes at me, his sword a blur. His movements are fast and precise, if slightly feral. Good. I let go as well. I shed the cloak I always wear, a civilized fa?ade, and we become animals, grunting and clashing swords, dirt smearing across us as we fight. My heart hammers with joy and adrenaline, and my need for bloodlust controls me. I don’t hold back, even when I slash at the back of his knee. Luckily, he moves fast to avoid his tendon being cut, but it does slice his pants. It seems to infuriate him more, and he hammers at my sword as I hold it up to block his blows. He hits it over and over before his knee comes up and smashes into my chest, sending me flying back.

The air leaves my lungs in an audible woosh, but I ignore the slight twinge in my ribs and go low, sliding between his legs and slamming my elbow into the back of his knee. He goes down hard, and I press my sword to his neck.

I expect him to yield, to relax, but his hands come up and grip the blade, cutting his palms as he yanks. He uses my blade like a pole to pull me up and over his head. I hit the dirt hard, my back smacking into it, and for a moment, I’m disoriented. It gives him the opportunity he needs. He presses his sword to my throat, his lower body trapping mine. His head blocks out the moon, and all I see is him.

Both of us are panting and dripping with sweat and his blood, and our hearts race so loudly I can hear them.

Anger and bloodlust morph into desire for a moment as I stare into his dark eyes. He blinks, his gaze dipping to my lips as he lowers his head. I freeze, sure he’s about to kiss me.

Need blooms between us, born from anger and adrenaline, but I know kissing the king would be a mistake, so I do the only thing I can think of to stop it—I slam my head into his.

He falls back with a yell, clutching his nose as I spin to my knees and lift my sword. “Cheap trick. You didn’t really think I would fall for that, did you?”

My voice is tight, though, because I almost did.

I nearly let the king kiss me, and part of me is angry that I didn’t. Fool. I squish that down with anger as he watches me. “Had enough?” I taunt, needing to push him, needing to fight off these feelings that I don’t like. I roll across the ground, meeting his sword, and he gets the picture.

Luckily, he doesn’t call me out on what happened. Instead, he fights back.

He meets me blow for blow as we once more dance across the clearing, our swords ringing true. My movements are quick but emotional, and he sees it. His gaze is observant and calculating.

That’s the only reason he manages to do what he does next.

He swipes under my angry strike, hitting my arm with his sword.

Both of us freeze, and my eyes track down his outstretched sword to see my blood dripping from the tip. Panting, I drag my eyes higher, across my arm, and see the small, shallow cut there.

He landed a blow.

He cut me when no one else ever has, not even Crux.

“You cut me,” I murmur, my fingers coming up to touch my blood in disbelief.

“You cut me first,” he snarls.

“Then I will again,” I growl.

I go to attack, but he grabs my sword, pressing the tip to his neck. “You win.”

“No, don’t you dare just let me win,” I hiss.

“I’m not letting you win.” He smirks. “You’ve landed five hits and cut me five times. I cut you once, so you win, and now I’m exhausted. I need to dress my wounds before my people have questions, and you need to get back before they see us. We have not exactly been quiet.”

“Fuck that. Let’s go again,” I demand.

“No, we are done.” He pushes my sword away and bows. “That was the best fight I have had in a long time.” He puts his sword away and walks past me, giving me his back, trusting I won’t attack.

“This isn’t over!” I call.

He glances over his shoulder, his eyes twinkling as he meets my gaze. “Good, I hope not. Sleep well, Princess Alyx.”