The Heir: A Snow White Retelling (The Twisted Kingdoms Book 3)

by Frost Kay

  What am I missing?

  She released the banister and swiveled to face the king. She kept her expression placid when she noticed Maven was watching her. The new Crown prince was a problem. If she wasn’t careful, he’d plant a dagger in her back when she wasn’t looking.

  Destin glanced at her from over his shoulder. “It’s been an exciting day, has it not, my lady?”

  “It has, sire.” Tempest dropped into a deep curtsey, her head so low that snow settled on the nape of her neck. “You have given me a great gift.”

  Destin’s polished boots came into view before he helped her to stand. His lips quirked into a satisfied smile. “You are worth it, darling.” He leaned close and dropped a kiss to her left cheek and whispered, “You have a dress fitting, but then, afterward, I’m sure you’d like to deal with the rabble?”

  She nodded, hardening her expression. “I will make sure it’s done.”

  “I know you will.” A thinly disguised threat. “The guards will hold them in the barracks until you are ready.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Tempest replied, forcing a smile to her face and bowing deeply again before leaving the plinth. She glanced toward the thrones one last time and frowned. Where had Maven gone? Probably slithered off to his lair.

  Her mind turned back to what the king had said. The guards were holding the rebels in the Hound barracks. Sure, they had their own garrison, but why not the dungeon? Something wasn’t right.

  She held her head high as she descended the steps and strode across the black marble floor, the train of her gown whispering behind her. Snow fell from the bruised sky in small flurries, dampening her hair. A storm was a good thing. The city would be abuzz about the theatrics in the Forgotten Square and then would be boarding up their homes. The chaos would make it easy to smuggle out the rebels.

  Keeping her strides sedate and even was a difficult thing when she entered the palace. Her gut screamed for her to hurry—to run. She glanced from left to right, making sure to move with the flow of the crowd until she made it to the lavish corridor that led to her rooms. She stepped from the staircase and slowed when she discovered a person lounging negligently against her door.

  The prince.

  What the bloody hell was he doing there?

  She bowed her head, asking for patience, and continued forward, her gaze shuttered. “Your Royal Highness, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?” she asked, tone bland and uninterested.

  Maven pushed from her door and closed the distance between them, once again towering over her. Did he really think that scared her? She’d fought bigger men and won.

  He arched a regal eyebrow as he inspected her face. “Just making sure my new mum found her way back all right. You are new to the castle, and I know it’s easy to get turned around and end up in places where you don’t belong.”

  “How true you are, my lord. Good thing part of my training was to study the palace and memorize the layout.” She cocked her head and arched a brow of her own. “It’s been a long night for everyone. If you don’t mind, I’d like to retire to my rooms.”

  He smiled, his mouth too wide. “My father said you had a dress fitting.”

  “Indeed, and yet you are lurking outside my rooms.” She swerved around him and continued on. “Hoping to give your opinion on my dress? Or…” Tempest glanced over her shoulder. “Did you hope to catch me undressed? Because I can promise you, neither will happen.”

  Careful, Tempest. You’ve already pushed him twice today.

  “It isn’t being held in your room.”

  She reached her rooms and hesitated at her doors. “Excuse me?”

  “Your fitting is not in your rooms.” The hair on her arms rose at the evil twinkle in his pitch-black colored eyes. “Because I checked, of course. You’re very organized. Not one mess anywhere.”

  “You will stay out of my rooms,” she said softly, fighting to keep the last vestiges of her patience in place. “Or you will not like the consequences.”

  She’d threatened royalty. It was treason, but she didn’t regret it for one moment. The prince was dangerous, but so was she. He was up to something as much as she was. Neither had proof, so they were on middle ground. She was his father’s betrothed, and he was the king’s new heir.

  “Temper, temper,” he called as he began walking backward. “You really have turned into a haughty little tart. Ever since my father made the mistake of elevating you above your rightful rank, you’ve forgotten yourself. And tarts get eaten in here.” He saluted her once before turning on his heel and crawling back to whatever shadowed alcove he’d come from.

  She opened the door to her rooms and locked it behind her. He’d invaded her space. It was probably a scare tactic, but it was better to be safe than sorry. She searched the room high and low for any mischief. For good measure, Tempest tossed out the water in her wash basin, the perfumes, cosmetics, and oils. Next, she dumped the meager spirits down the privy and pulled all the linens from her bed. No poisonous insects or reptiles to be found.

  With that done, she struggled out of her black and silver gown, her pearl hair pins catching on it as she tugged it over her head. Tempest threw it on the bed, her heart racing as she jogged into her wardrobe and donned nondescript boys’ clothes. She pulled out the top drawer of the dresser and grabbed the small leather pouch hidden behind it before putting the drawer back. Quickly, she tied the pouch to her belt, tucked a cap in the back of her trousers, and snatched her cloak from the top of the dresser. There wasn’t time to pull out the pearl pins, so she nimbly braided her hair. It wasn’t a great disguise, but it would have to do.

  Unlocking the door, she opened it as much as she dared and observed the area. No one but a few guards. She closed the door and made sure her cloak was clasped shut so her clothes weren’t visible. Temp smiled at both guards at the end of the hallway and swung around the banister and glided down the stairs. It was easy enough to pop into the seamstress’s quarters and cancel with excuses of a long night and headache. After that little chore was completed, she tucked into a darkened corridor, wrapped her hair around her head and put on the cap. Paired with the hustle and bustle of the morning rush for breakfast, she managed to swerve through the servants’ corridors relatively unimpeded until she reached the courtyard.

  The snow had begun to fall hard, and her stomach twisted in knots as she jogged off the palace grounds. Once she was sure no one had followed her, her steps lengthened until she was in a full sprint. Heimseryans met in small groups as they prepared their homes and businesses for the oncoming storm. Some heckled her as she ran by, but Tempest didn’t pay them any mind. Her breath puffed from her lips in small clouds, and her lungs ached as she pushed herself harder. Tempest didn’t slow when reaching the dead-end of the alley she’d turned down. She sped up and used the wall of the apothecary to launch herself upward. Her fingers scrabbled at the roof, but she managed to climb up despite her cold, stiff fingers. Running across icy, snowy roofs wasn’t the best idea, but it cut the travel time from the palace to the barracks in half.

  Sweat slicked her forehead as she dropped from the blacksmith’s forge and entered the Hounds’ training grounds. She ghosted to the garrison and pulled the cap from her head as the initiate with a bowl cut guarding the prison straightened at her appearance.

  “Any new prisoners?” she asked, hoping against all hope that the rebels were really there.

  The boy frowned. “Just a drunk from last night.”

  Her blood rushed past her ears. They weren’t here.

  Tempest managed to thank the boy, then ambled away, not able to feel her legs. A group of trainees sparred in the ring, and Dima and Aleks were having breakfast with some of their comrades by a nearby fire. She blinked and blinked again, trying to make sense of everything. Maxim and Madrid were missing. They had been at the execution that morning, and the Hounds had been the ones guarding the rebels beforehand, but after… She closed her eyes and tried to remember every detail after the
king had proclaimed the rebels as hers.

  Her mouth gaped open as the realization slammed into her. Only the guards had led the prisoners away. No Hounds had been present. She gurgled and took a lurching step back the way she’d come, garnering the attention of Dima. He stood, and she shook her head once before sprinting in the direction of the palace.

  Think, think, think.

  The men hadn’t been taken back into the castle. If they had, she would have seen it. They had been led out of the Forsaken Grounds in the direction of the Hound barracks. She scrambled on top of a cobbler’s shop and eyed the city. A ruckus would have started up if they’d been led into the city at all, and the Hounds would have heard of it. The bobbing ships in the harbor captured her attention.

  The bay.

  It was the perfect place to dispose of bodies. Corpses were found weekly with the tides. But the harbor would be too public. The king’s guards would need somewhere private and out-of-sight of prying eyes. With crushing certainty, she scurried south over slippery rooftops toward the rear of the palace. The immense castle was founded upon the craggy coastline which made it impossible for any ships to approach from the southern side.

  “Hold on, Brine,” she muttered to herself, ignoring the searing stitch in her stomach as she dropped from the nearest roof and kept moving.

  It was easy to slip around the southern side of the palace. No one in their right mind went back there unless they had a death wish. The rocks were too slippery and sharp to climb upon, and the waves were relentless and brutal. Tempest slowed down and made sure to cling to the side of the castle as she crept around the edge, her boots slipping now and again.

  “That’s far enough!” a male voice barked.

  She froze in place, her eyes scouring the area for the source of the voice. She spotted the red sash of a guard twenty paces ahead of her. His wide back was to her, so she slunk down into the huge, jagged rocks, making sure to keep her eye on the tide and the incoming waves. More male voices became clear as she tiptoed closer. She peered around the rock she was hiding behind and gasped, unable to smother the sound. The pair of guards nearest to her were so busy with throwing a body, restrained and weighed down with stones, into the sea to notice her.

  Wicked hell, no! Oh no, oh no, oh no.

  “The feral one said he’d rather rot in hell than be in our presence a moment longer,” one of the men joked. “Well, now he can rot, but in the bottom of the black sea.” Male chuckles filled the air before they began moving away from the sea.

  Tempest pressed her back to the slick rock, dagger in hand as the guards climbed out of the rocks and entered a small metal gate near the base of the castle. It clanged shut, and the moment they were out of sight, she tore at her cloak, tossing the heavy wool to the ground. She tore her boots from her feet and haphazardly raced toward the sea. The waves began to pull back as she dove headlong into the dark water before giving herself any time to prepare for the shock of the water.

  And it was shocking—bitterly cold and biting her skin like knives. For an agonizing moment, all the air was knocked from her lungs. She kicked up to the surface and gulped down a painful breath before diving back down once more.

  The salt stung her eyes as she struggled to see though the churning dark water. She pushed herself deeper and spotted a pale, wriggling body. Tempest swam harder and pulled her dagger from her sheath and sloppily cut at his bindings. He tore free and kicked toward the surface as she spotted another body. Panic began to rise in her throat along with her failing air supply as she moved to him and cut him loose too, her attention darting to the surface.

  Her lungs screamed as she forced herself to stay below as a wave rolled over the surface. Tempest kicked hard, letting her body float the rest of the way back to the surface. A sob caught in her throat as she gasped for air. Where was Brine? How long had he been under? Her body shook, and her joints ached, and only sheer determination made her able to force herself back under the ice-cold water.

  Her sodden clothes became heavy as she searched the murky water. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a wolf struggling in seaweed, his paws firmly tied to rocks. His sharp teeth ripped at the spindly sea plant, and he writhed, making his predicament worse.

  “Brine!” Tempest called out, the word forming bubbles in front of her face as she closed the distance between them.

  His desperate silver vulpine eyes locked on her as she approached. There wasn’t any humanity left.

  Please don’t bite me.

  She dipped down and carefully reached for his first paw. He snapped at her, catching her forearm as she released his first leg. As if realizing what she was doing, he ceased struggling so she could cut him free. With astounding speed, he swam toward the surface without a second glance.

  Tempest spied another body, but it was not moving. Her movements were slow as she cut him free and dragged him to the surface. Breaking the surface was a blessing and a curse. The wind and snow bit at her. A wet Talagan knelt on a rock to her left and held his shivering arms out. She swam over to him, and he took the unconscious body from her the moment she was in reach.

  A wave rolled in, and Tempest ducked down, swimming as hard as she could, and anchored herself to a rock at the bottom as the tide threatened to tear her away and dash her against the rocks. The water seemed to take on a dreamlike state as the wave passed, and she blearily searched the sea for shifters. Could anyone survive this long without air?

  Tempest pushed forward, her limbs fatigued and numb. The chill from the water didn’t hurt anymore. Another wave crashed overhead, and a cloud of sand enveloped her, tumbling her about. She clawed at the water, and something slammed against her face. A flailing arm. Her vision went red and dotty. Her blade slipped from her fingers and Temp fumbled for her other blade, but her fingers were no longer moving.

  She glimpsed the drowning man as her own lungs threatened to burst.

  We’re going to die.

  An arm circled around her waist and yanked her upward. She stared at the flailing man as she was dragged away. He opened his mouth and a stream of bubbles escaped.

  No, I can save him. I can—

  She sputtered and cried hoarsely the second she was topside again. “I can save him!” she screamed. “I have to go back. He’s dying. I can—”

  A hand covered her mouth, quelling her screams.

  “Shh,” Pyre whispered in her ear, harsh and urgent.

  She didn’t have any energy to fight him, so she just stared at the spot where the man had been abandoned.

  “Here, take her!” Pyre commanded.

  Tempest didn’t feel a thing as she was lifted the from the icy ocean. Small puffs of steam left her lips as she fought for breath, tears filling her eyes as the kitsune dived into the raging water.

  “Oh, girlie,” Brine whispered in her right ear as he pulled her away from the edge of the sea and settled her between two rocks that blocked the wind.

  His hands rubbed up and down her arms, but she didn’t really feel them. It seemed like ages that Pyre was gone. Another shifter popped above the surface just as a wave crashed over his head, tossing him against the nearest rock. A shifter cursed and nimbly dragged him from the surf, bruised and bloody, but alive.

  Pyre surfaced a few seconds later and managed to haul himself from the water. He strode toward them, his face devoid of any expression.

  “The rest?” Brine murmured.

  “No others,” the kitsune croaked. “All dead.”

  “That’s—that’s six of our men,” Brine replied, voice so soft that Tempest barely heard him.

  Stars flashed across her vision, and Pyre wavered.

  Six deaths. She was responsible for the deaths of six men.

  Hands cupped her cheeks, yet she didn’t feel anything but the pressure. Pyre crouched before her, his molten eyes concerned. “Temp,” he said firmly. “I need you to say something.”

  Her lips couldn’t from any words. An inarticulate low wail escaped he
r, but that was it. She stared past him at the sea. Six lives. She’d ruined everything.

  Nineteen

  Pyre

  Water dripped from Pyre’s sodden clothes, but he didn’t feel the frigid temperatures. He couldn’t look away from Tempest’s blue lips, so pale they almost matched her wet hair that hung in ropes over her cheeks.

  “She’s too cold,” Brine growled. “We need to get her dry now.”

  “Briggs! I need your cloak,” Pyre barked and then directed his attention back to Tempest. “We have to remove your clothes and get you dry.” She didn’t acknowledge him, her gray eyes empty of emotion.

  The healer appeared at his side and pulled his cloak from his shoulders, his dark eyes creased in concern. “How long was she in the water?”

  “I don’t know,” Pyre bit out as he worked at the buttons of her trousers. “Hold the cloak up.”

  Briggs held his gray cloak to give them privacy. Tempest flopped like a rag doll as they stripped off her clothes, not one sound falling from her lips. His panic ratcheted up a notch when he pulled her into his arms, her icy skin biting at his own exposed flesh.

  Briggs lay the cloak over her naked body and held his arms out. “I can take her.”

  Pyre shook his head, his arms tightening around her limp body. “I’ll take her. Make sure the rest of the men are ready to travel. We’ll reconvene with the others ahead.”

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and the other beneath her knees and stood, holding her as close to his body as possible. Her eyes fluttered shut. Hell, no.

  He shook her hard and glared down into her dazed face. “Do not go to sleep.”

  Brine stood on wobbly legs, naked as the day he was born. “How far?”