Page 6 of The Stolen Throne
King Eidolon. My husband as long as I continue to play this role of queen in my sister’s place.
His lips draw back in a smile. “Happy name day, my queen.”
Name day. What a joke.
My name was erased from the Book of Names on the day of my birth. Until recently, no one has ever known that our line of queens produces twins. One to rule. One to forfeit.
I’m supposed to be the forfeit. The second born. The body double. The decoy. The fake.
Look how well it’s working.
A shudder slithers down my spine and I have to consciously try not to pluck at the material of my gown. I’m supposed to look like a cactus rose, all pale pinks and soft petals, as a foil to Eidolon’s ice blue costume. But the skirt is so flouncy it annoys me, the mask itches, and the bodice presses my breasts up practically to my chin. Every breath makes them heave.
All of which make sitting beautifully still for the king at my side near impossible.
He knows I’m not Tabra. He knows. And he and I are both putting on a show together for my people while he hunts for my sister and everyone else I hid from him. What he doesn’t know is that I’m also putting on a show for him.
Months spent pretending to be besotted with this man, just like Tabra had been before I got her away from him. Away from the man who has secretly killed our queens for centuries. The man my sister married after he poisoned her with a gift of an amulet—the same amulet that now hangs around my neck. A man I also happen to be magically bound to by a sand nymph’s curse.
I only just found out about that.
With every passing heartbeat, I’ve expected to become Eidolon’s puppet, my strings pulled by his every whim and wish. But I feel…nothing. No tug. No urge to follow. No sense that he controls me or my power—either with the amulet or the curse or any other magical means. I honestly don’t know what’s supposed to happen.
So I’ve been playing like one or all of those things have done their job and I’m his.
Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice my shiver of revulsion as he leans closer. “If I haven’t said so already, you look truly enchanting tonight.”
I want to vomit.
“Thank you,” I murmur instead, lowering my gaze in a flutter of lashes. Do I sound pleased enough? Insipid enough? Flattered enough? How did Tabra sound when she was the one under his thrall?
I force my stiff cheeks to move and smile back. “And thank you for my name day celebration, my king. Are you enjoying it?”
He gives a small hum that could be either agreement or denial. There’s a look in his eyes I can’t quite pinpoint, and I have to keep myself from fidgeting in my seat.
Then he gives my hand a squeeze. “Do you know the biggest mistake of my life was falling in love?” He leans back in his high-backed throne covered in cold-looking gemstones—all blues and whites, reminding me of the portal room in Tyndra—the picture of relaxed and casual. “The first incarnation of me.” He says this in a low voice for my ears only. No one else knows the source of his immortality, how for centuries he’s shed his shadows to create a younger version of himself. “That man fell in love.”
Looking at this incarnation of Eidolon, it’s hard to imagine he ever loved anyone but himself. This one is evil incarnate. Although I did fall in love with a different version of this man, the only Shadow of his to escape him.
Reven.
He’s hiding in the desert somewhere. With Tabra. With the Vanished. I should be with them. Instead, I’m stuck here.
Eidolon cocks his head. “Do you want to know what happened?”
All I can do is nod.
“His lover betrayed him. In the most ruthless, heartbreaking way. The Eidolon of that age made a vow to himself that he would right all her wrongs against him and against the world…and he would never allow himself to be so pathetically weak again.”
Why is he telling me this? In the middle of my party of all places. Is it a warning not to fall in love with him?
“I would never betray you.” I have to say it. He expects me to.
He hums and runs a hand affectionately over my hair, which is slicked back in a bun at my nape, like he’s petting a dog. “As sitting queen of this dominion, what do you think is your most sacred duty?”
This feels like a trick. Like a test. Or am I being paranoid? “To protect my people.”
He huffs a laugh. Does the polish of his smile tarnish a little bit? “I had hoped you would say to love and honor your husband, the king.”
