Page 63 of The Dead Queen

She gives him a piteous look over her shoulder. “Whether I live or die is hardly consequential at this point. But thank you for your concern.” She disappears into the dark corridor, her footsteps as light as a moth’s wing.

Hunter kisses my temple, then frowns. “I’ll get you out of here.” He stares into my eyes a little longer than is strictly necessary. I hand his empty waterskin back to him. My head still throbs from dehydration, but the relief I feel is stronger.

“Saving me from death-by-a-thousand rats won’t make me change my mind, you know,” I say, only half in jest.

“What about death by thirst?” he asks with a small grin.

I shake my head. “Nor death from freezing.”

“Damp?”

“Can one die of dampness?”

“Most definitely.”

I shake my head. “I mean it, Hunter. I haven’t changed my mind about marrying you.”

“Yet,” he says. “You haven’t changed your mind, yet.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

“Sienna,” Hunter grabs my trembling hands. They’re coated in grime from the dirt-covered floor and rotting cell door where I clawed at it for hours. He doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just doesn’t care. He looks at me with those warm, brown eyes and somewhere inside of me, a spark of warmth ignites.

“I didn’t agree to your father’s political matchmaking for any sort of personal or political gain,” he says. “I thought you knew me better than that. I agreed because I love you. I always have.”

“I …”

He shakes his head. “It’s alright. I know you’re not some love-sick girl who yearns for a comfortable home and babies. Or chickens and a washerwoman who visits every second Tuesday.”

“I do love chickens.”

“Well, that’s not surprising. Who doesn’t love chickens?”

“And I hate washing clothes. I had to do it a lot in the borderlands.” To clean off all the blood, I don’t say.

Hunter lets out a dry laugh. “My point is, that won’t be our life together, Sienna. We can learn to spin yarn and raise sheep near the mountains. Or, we could pirate a ship and sail the seas, beyond the known world. We can have any life you desire.” Hunter rubs his hands over my shoulders, trying to warm me. “I only ask that you let me be even a small part of it.”

It sounds wonderful. Simple. But I know it isn’t. It can’t be. I nearly died down here, and a swift death in the near future isn’t off the table yet either. It’s too much to process.

His eyes travel over my tangled hair, muddy face, and soggy dress.

“You won’t last long like this.” He pulls a pack from over his shoulder. Inside is a cloak for me and a simple, brown dress, like something a servant might wear.

My fingers reach for the buttons behind my neck, but they’re still numb with cold.

“I can’t,” I say.

Hunter turns me away from him. With quick, practiced movements, he loosens the buttons down my back. I wonder how many dresses he removed while I was away and whether I should be jealous. He helps me pull the sleeves over my shoulders, his thumbs trailing over the goose pimpled skin of my arms. I sense his eyes on the back of my neck. An entirely different shiver runs through my body.

Hunter steps back, turning away to give me privacy. “Quickly,” he says. “We don’t have much time.”

I finish removing the wet dress and shift, then pull on the homespun gown. It’s baggy in places, but not too long. It’ll do. With warmer clothes on my body, my legs feel more stable. I walk toward the door, throwing the cloak over me. It’s red.

I glance up at him, a questioning look.

He shrugs. “It’s the warmest cloak I could find in your rooms. You’ll need it. I also have blankets to cover with on the road.”

“The road?”