I Will Never Be Yours novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Dead Luna's Rooms

Sorcha searches the Luna's wing in secret and finds the King asleep outside its door; he catches her wrist, smells wolfsbane on her, and orders it cut off, so in three days his nose will know her.

I scrubbed the Luna's wing for six hours and moved nothing I couldn't put back.

The housekeeper talked the whole time, which made it easier.

She talked about the dust that came in from the mountains, and about the cook's bad knee, and about the King.

"Nine days out of ten he's the best man in the keep," she said, wringing a rag into my bucket. "The tenth day he stands in this doorway for an hour and doesn't say a word."

"Why?" I asked.

"It's her room."

I kept my face turned toward the windowsill.

"What was she like?"

"I never met her," the housekeeper said. "She never got here. The rite was at her father's hall, and they were to come home together the next morning, and then the hall burned."

She shook out the cloth.

"But he had this bed made new the week before she was due. He picked the curtains himself. He couldn't tell you what color his own coat is, and he picked those curtains."

They were pale green.

I had never seen them.

I had only ever seen the inside of a veil.

"You'll be done by dark," the housekeeper said. "I'll send up bread."

She left me alone with the bed and the open window and the white veil on the chair.

I did not touch the veil.

I stood in the middle of the room with my chin up and my fist against my stomach and told myself I wasn't looking for anything.

I was.

Under every cushion, in every drawer, behind the wardrobe, I looked for the Crown's own copy of the treaty my father had signed.

I found a hairbrush, which was new.

I found a writing desk with a pen laid across a blank card.

I found nothing else, and by evening I was shaking from hunger and bruises.

Autumn came up with the bread and a bowl of soup and sat on the edge of the bed to eat hers.

"The cook likes me," she said with her mouth full. "I told her my lungs are on loan from a dying horse, and she gave me extra butter."

"You're going to be sick."

"I'm going to be fat. Eat your soup, Sel. You look terrible."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." She looked around the room. "It's a nice room. Why's it so empty?"

"Someone died in it."

"No, they didn't. It's too clean."

I laughed, and it hurt my ribs, and for a second we were two girls sitting on a bed.

Then the bell rang for the servants' supper and she went down.

I stayed.

I told myself it was to finish the floor.

That night I came back up the north stair in my stockings, after the whole keep had gone quiet.

I knew the treaty was in the King's study, and I couldn't search the study.

But I could search his wife's room twice.

The gallery was dark, with moonlight lying in squares on the boards.

I was halfway down it before I saw the shape on the floor in front of the tall door.

A man was sitting with his back against the wood and his head tipped sideways, asleep.

His right hand lay flat on the boards beside him, open, palm up.

I stood perfectly still.

It was him, in a rumpled shirt, with no crown and no Beta and no guards, and he was sleeping outside my room with his hand on the floor.

My wolf stirred under the wolfsbane, and it was the second time in two days.

I should have turned around.

Instead I took one step to get past him, and a board creaked.

His hand closed around my wrist before his eyes were open.

He was fast, and strong.

His fingers wrapped all the way round, hot against my skin, and my pulse jumped under his thumb.

"Who," he said, hoarse, "is that?"

"The new maid."

"What are you doing here?"

"I left my bucket."

His eyes opened and found my face in the dark.

For a moment he only looked at me.

His thumb did not move off my pulse, and I could feel it running fast against his skin.

I told myself it was because he'd startled me.

I told myself it was because of the stairs and the fear, and not because his hand was warm and he did not let go.

"You're the one from the truck," he said. "Sel."

"Yes, my King."

"You've been crying."

"I haven't."

"You smell of it." He frowned and drew a slow breath, and the frown deepened. "That isn't tears."

He pulled my wrist toward his face.

I almost fell on top of him.

"Wolfsbane," he said. "On your skin and in your blood."

My mouth went dry.

"The guards dosed us in the truck."

"That was two days ago. This is fresh." He looked up, and his eyes were suddenly very sharp. "You've been taking it for months, maybe years. Why?"

"Rogues take it. So packs can't track us."

"Not in my keep."

He let go of my wrist.

My skin felt cold where his hand had been.

"Nobody on probation takes wolfsbane here," he said, standing. "I'll tell the healer to cut you off."

"You can't."

"I can. It leaves the blood in three days."

I stared at him.

In three days, he would be able to smell me.

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