Page 68 of A Kingdom of Wild and Power
Ylva did not touch it.
‘The dress belonged to princess Wren Wynter,’ Hagan said quietly. ‘The witches found it in her castle. It was her mother’s wedding gown. The late queen’s.’
‘And you stole it,’ Ylva accused, her voice sharp.
Hagan shrugged, the motion careless. ‘It would have burnt otherwise.’
‘And you want me to wear it?’ She frowned, eyes narrowing. ‘Why?’
Amusement crossed his purple glare. ‘Someone ought to.’
Ylva’s eyes dropped to the gown despite herself. Slowly, almost unwillingly, she reached out and brushed her fingers over the fabric. The material was cool, smooth, and it stirred something she had not expected. A hollow ache. A whisper of nostalgia she could not name.
She frowned, unsettled.
She did not know the Wynters. She had never met the wolverian princess. And yet, standing there, with her hand resting on that stolen blue silk, it felt as though she was touching a ghost.
Ylva knew the answers already. She felt them coiled beneath her skin, waiting. But the runes carved into her body stirred, tugging insistently, urging her to leave it alone.Do not think. Do not remember.So she obeyed. She pressed the feeling down until it dulled, and turned her attention back to the warlock.
‘I’m not wearing it,’ she said evenly. ‘It would be disrespectful.’
‘I don’t care what you think,’ Hagan replied without looking up. ‘Get changed. I won’t repeat myself.’
Ylva sighed. She knew too well how little choice she had. Rage burnt bright in her chest. She wanted to scream, to claw at him, to tear those purple eyes from his skull. Instead, she swallowed it all down. One battle at a time.
She stripped and dressed as quickly as she could, ignoring how the warm air managed to rise gooseflesh along her skin. It was only when the fabric settled against her that she realised, too late, that he was watching. Her breath hitched, blue eyes flicking up to meet his.
The dress fit her perfectly.
Hagan cocked his head, his gaze sliding over her with the slow, assessing interest of something cold-blooded, like a lizard basking in the sun.
‘Are you happy now?’ she asked, knowing she ought to stop, knowing she wouldn’t.
‘I’m never happy.’
The words stopped her.
Ylva stilled, studying him in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to before. Was it true? Could someone truly exist without happiness? And what kind of life carved a person hollow enough for that to be their truth?
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said quietly. ‘It must be awful to live like that.’
Hagan’s head snapped towards her.
The shock on his face should have satisfied her. It should have felt like a victory. Instead, her chest tightened. For just a heartbeat, he did not look like a warlock or a monster or a man in control. He looked like a forgotten child—one left alone too long, only to realise that no one had ever been searching for him at all.
Hagan let the quill slip from his fingers. It struck the desk with a soft, final clatter before rolling to the floor, forgotten. He rose and moved towards Ylva.
She stepped back instinctively, the hem of the gown tangling around her ankles, her heart lurching with the certainty that this was the moment he would kill her. He stopped just inches away. Too close. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him, could see something restless behind his purple eyes.
For a long moment he simply stared at her, so long that time seemed to thin and stretch between them.
Then he exhaled.
‘Come along,’ Hagan said quietly. ‘I will show you the keep.’
Ylva frowned, thrown by the sudden shift. Before she could speak, the doors to his chambers were flung open with a sharp crack of magic. He stepped through, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
‘I’m losing patience.’
