Page 10 of The King's Man 3
Quin shifts behind me. His voice is low, cautious. “Halving it will mean weeks of pain before the duke sends more.”
“Take it,” Casimiria says without hesitation.
“Mother—”
“If anyone can create an alternative, it’s him,” she says, her gaze steady.
A fierce determination flares in my chest.
Quin’s fingers graze mine, a fleeting touch that sends doubt curling through me. His eyes pin me, not with command, but with something gentler—an unspoken question, a trust I’m not sure I deserve. “Cael?” he asks, the single word warm but firm enough to steady me.
I look away. “The duke wants your son declared heir at the end of next week.”
Casimiria’s breath catches. “He’ll want you dead next.”
I can’t meet their eyes.
The room falls into a heavy silence. Quin rises slowly, his face infuriatingly unreadable.
“I’ll begin preparations for the ceremony,” he says calmly.
Something snaps inside me. I shove him hard. “That’s it? Roll over and let him have his way?”
His hand catches mine, holding it against his chest. His pulse hammers wildly, betraying the calm façade. “Do you have a better plan, or just more insults?”
“Anything would be better than accepting this,” I snap, meeting his gaze.
His eyes narrow, a flicker of something raw surfacing. “Careful, Cael. You’re forgetting who you’re speaking to.”
“And you’re forgetting who you’re supposed to be,” I fire back. “A king!”
I flee from the tower, from him, and storm into the courtyard, where pipe-smoking Lucius finds me. His face is grim.
“The duke’s visit passed like a storm,” he says.
“The storm’s barely begun,” I mutter.
“I’m sorry, Cael. They destroyed the herb bed.”
No.
I sprint to the patch, falling to my knees at the sight of crushed plants and deep gouges in the soil. The last surviving herb trembles under my fingers, fragile and defiant.
The island’s inhabitants gather silently, their heads bowed. No jeers, no laughter this time—only their quiet solidarity.
Akilah kneels beside me, her lips brushing my forehead. Her warmth steadies me, but the despair is too much.
“I need a walk,” I murmur, leaving the ruined garden behind.
The canal’s rocky edge offers little solace as I pace back and forth. On my fourth pass, a sharp call has me stilling.
I turn slowly with a frustrated, heavy heart. Quin emerges from the ever-present mist, his cloak swirling behind him like he might have descended from the heavens. But what kind of heavens could possibly have deposited him here? To this fate?
He moves towards me, lips a tight line, and I want to tear off in the other direction.
I ball my fist and lower my head.
But the admonishment I’m braced for doesn’t come. Quin’s cloak curls around me, over my own, an extra layer of warmth against all the cold. He fastens it at the throat, above the clasp he gifted me.
