Queen of Shadows - Maas Sarah J. (читать книги полностью .txt) 📗

His arms wrapped tighter around her, but gently—so careful of the wounds that ached. He brushed his tongue against hers, and she opened her mouth to him. Each movement of their lips was a whisper of what was to come once they were both healed, and a promise.

The kiss was slow—thorough. As if they had all the time in the world.

As if they were the only ones in it.

Realizing he’d forgotten to tell Rowan about the letter he’d received from the Bane, Aedion Ashryver walked into Aelin’s suite of rooms in time to see that Aelin was awake—finally awake, and lifting her face to Rowan’s. They were sitting on the bed, Aelin in Rowan’s lap, the Fae warrior’s arms locked around her as he looked at her the way she deserved to be looked at. And when they kissed, deeply, without hesitation—

Rowan didn’t so much as glance Aedion’s way before a wind snapped through the suite, slamming the bedroom door in Aedion’s face.

Point taken.

A strange, ever-changing female scent hit him, and Aedion found Lysandra leaning against the hallway door. Tears gleamed in her eyes even as she smiled.

She gazed at the closed bedroom door, as if she could still see the prince and queen inside. “That,” she said, more to herself than to him. “That is what I am going to find one day.”

“A gorgeous Fae warrior?” Aedion said, shifting a bit.

Lysandra chuckled, wiping away her tears, and gave him a knowing look before walking away.

Apparently, Dorian’s golden ring was gone—and Aelin knew exactly who had been responsible for the momentary blackness when she’d hit the ground as the castle collapsed, who had bestowed the unconsciousness courtesy of a blow to the back of her head.

She didn’t know why Lorcan hadn’t killed her, but she didn’t particularly care—not when he was long gone. She supposed he’d never promised not to steal the ring back.

Though he’d also never made them verify that the Amulet of Orynth wasn’t a fake. Too bad she wouldn’t be there to see his face when he realized it.

The thought was enough to make Aelin smile the next day, despite the door she stood before—despite who waited behind it.

Rowan lingered at the end of the hallway, guarding the only way in or out. He gave her a nod, and even from the distance, she read the words in his eyes. I’ll be right here. One shout, and I’ll be at your side.

She rolled her eyes at him. Overbearing, territorial Fae beast.

She’d lost track of how long they’d kissed for, how long she’d lost herself in him. But then she’d taken his hand and laid it on her breast, and he’d growled in a way that made her toes curl and her back arch … and then wince at the remnant of pain flickering in her body.

He had pulled back at that wince, and when she’d tried to convince him to keep going, he’d told her that he had no interest in bedding an invalid, and since they’d already waited this long, she could cool her heels and wait some more. Until she was able to keep up with him, he’d added with a wicked grin.

Aelin shoved away the thought with another glare in Rowan’s direction, loosed a steadying breath, and pushed down on the handle.

He was standing by the window overlooking the wrecked gardens where servants were struggling to repair the catastrophic damage he’d caused.

“Hello, Dorian,” she said.

Dorian Havilliard had awoken alone, in a room he didn’t recognize.

But he was free, even though a pale band of skin now marred his neck.

For a moment, he had lain in bed, listening.

No screaming. No wailing. Just a few birds tentatively chirping outside the window, summer sunshine leaking in, and … silence. Peace.

There was such an emptiness in his head. A hollowness in him.

He’d even put a hand over his heart to see if it was beating.

The rest was a blur—and he lost himself in it, rather than think about that emptiness. He bathed, he dressed, and he spoke to Aedion Ashryver, who looked at him as if he had three heads and who was apparently now in charge of castle security.

Chaol was alive but still recovering, the general said. Not yet awake—and maybe that was a good thing, because Dorian had no idea how he’d face his friend, how he’d explain everything. Even when most of it was mere shards of memory, pieces he knew would further break him if he ever put them together.

A few hours later, Dorian was still in that bedroom, working up the nerve to survey what he’d done. The castle he’d destroyed; the people he’d killed. He’d seen the wall: proof of his enemy’s power … and mercy.

Not his enemy.

Aelin.

“Hello, Dorian,” she said. He turned from the window as the door shut behind her.

She lingered by the door, in a tunic of deep blue and gold, unbuttoned with careless grace at the neck, her hair loose at her shoulders, her brown boots scuffed. But the way she held herself, the way she stood with utter stillness … A queen looked out at him.

He didn’t know what to say. Where to begin.

She prowled for the little sitting area where he stood. “How are you feeling?”

Even the way she talked was slightly different. He’d already heard what she’d said to his people, the threats she’d made and the order she’d demanded.

“Fine,” he managed to say. His magic rumbled deep inside him, but it was barely more than a whisper, as if it was drained. As if it was as empty as him.

“You wouldn’t be hiding in here, would you?” she said, slumping into one of the low chairs on the pretty, ornate rug.

“Your men put me in here so they could keep an eye on me,” he said, remaining by the window. “I wasn’t aware that I was allowed to leave.” Perhaps that was a good thing—considering what the demon prince had made him do.

“You can leave whenever you please. This is your castle—your kingdom.”

“Is it?” he dared ask.

“You’re the King of Adarlan now,” she said softly, but not gently. “Of course it is.”

His father was dead. Not even a body was left to reveal what they’d done that day.

Aelin had publicly declared she’d killed him, but Dorian knew he’d ended his father when he shattered the castle. He had done it for Chaol, and for Sorscha, and he knew she’d claimed the kill because to tell his people … to tell his people that he’d killed his father—

“I still have to be crowned,” he said at last. His father had stated such wild things in those last few moments; things that changed everything and nothing.

She crossed her legs, leaning back in her seat, but there was nothing casual in her face. “You say that like you hope it doesn’t happen.”

Dorian stifled the urge to touch his neck and confirm that the collar was still gone and clenched his hands behind his back. “Do I deserve to be king after all I did? After all that happened?”

“Only you can answer that question.”

“Do you believe what he said?”

Aelin sucked on her teeth. “I don’t know what to believe.”

“Perrington’s going to war with me—with us. My being king won’t stop that army.”

“We’ll figure it out.” She loosed a breath. “But your being king is the first step of it.”

Beyond the window, the day was bright, clear. The world had ended and begun anew, and yet nothing at all had changed, either. The sun would still rise and fall, the seasons would still change, heedless of whether he was free or enslaved, prince or king, heedless of who was alive and who was gone. The world would keep moving on. It didn’t seem right, somehow.