Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7) by Sarah J. Maas

“The shifter,” Manon said. Dorian nodded. “And the Mycenians bought it?”

“Absolutely,” Dorian drawled. “Aelin learned what the Mycenians needed in order to be convinced to join her cause. What sort of thing might the Crochans require to do the same?”

Manon lay back onto her bedroll, as graceful as a dancer. She toyed with the end of her braid, the red strip there. “I’ll ask Ghislaine in the morning.”

“I don’t think Ghislaine is going to know.”

Those gold eyes slid to his. “You truly believe I should ask Glennis?”

“I do. And I think she will help you.”

“Why bother?”

He wondered if the Thirteen could ever see it—that hint of self-loathing that sometimes flickered across her face. “Her mother willingly abandoned her city, her people, her queen in their last hours so she might preserve the royal bloodline. Your bloodline. I think she told you that story tonight so you might realize she will do the same as well.”

“Why not say it outright, then?”

“Because, in case you didn’t notice, you’re not exactly a popular person in this camp, despite your ploy with the Ironteeth. Glennis knows how to play the game. You just need to catch up with her. Find out why they’re even here, then plan your next move.”

Her mouth tightened, then relaxed. “Your tutors taught you well, princeling.”

“Being raised by a demon-infested tyrant did have its benefits, it seems.” His words rang flat, even as an edge sharpened inside him.

Her gaze drifted to his throat, to the pale line across it. He could almost feel her stare like a phantom touch.

“You still hate him.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Am I not supposed to?”

Her moon-white hair gleamed in the dim light. “You told me he was human. Deep down, he’d remained human, and tried to protect you as best he could. Yet you hate him.”

“You’ll forgive me if I find his methods of protecting me to be unpalatable.”

“But it was the demon, not the man, who killed your healer.”

Dorian clenched his jaw. “It makes no difference.”

“Doesn’t it?” Manon frowned. “Most can barely withstand a few months of Valg infestation. You barely withstood it.” He tried not to flinch at the blunt words. “Yet he held on for decades.”

He held her stare. “If you’re trying to cast my father as some sort of noble hero, you’re wasting your breath.” He debated ending it there, but he asked, “If someone told you that your grandmother was secretly good, that she hadn’t wanted to murder your parents and so many others, that she’d been forced to make you kill your own sister, would you find it so easy to believe? To forgive her?”

Manon glanced down at her abdomen—at the scar hidden beneath her leathers. He braced himself for the answer. But she only said, “I’m tired of talking.”

Good. So was he.

“Is there something you’d rather do instead, witchling?” His voice turned rough, and he knew she could hear his heartbeat as it began hammering.

Her only answer was to slide over him, strands of her hair falling around them in a curtain. “I said I don’t want to talk,” she breathed, and lowered her mouth to his neck. Dragged her teeth over it, right through that white line where the collar had been.

Dorian groaned softly, and shifted his hips, grinding himself into her. Her breath became jagged in answer, and he ran a hand down her side.

“Shut me up, then,” he said, a hand drifting southward to cup her backside as she nipped at his neck, his jaw. No hint of those iron teeth, but the promise of them lingered, an exquisite sword over his head.

Only with her did he not need to explain. Only with her did he not need to be a king, or anything but what he was. Only with her would there be no judgment for what he’d done, who he’d failed, what he might still have to do.

Just this—pleasure and utter oblivion.

Manon’s hand found his belt buckle, and Dorian reached for hers, and neither spoke for some time after that.



The release she found that night—twice—couldn’t entirely dull the edge when morning broke, gray and bleak, and Manon approached Glennis’s larger tent.

She’d left the king sleeping, bundled in the blankets they’d shared, though she hadn’t allowed him to hold her. She’d simply turned onto her side, putting her back to him, and closed her eyes. He hadn’t seemed to care, sated and drowsy after she’d ridden him until they’d both found their pleasure, and had been quickly asleep. Had stayed asleep, while Manon had contemplated how, exactly, she was to have this meeting.

Perhaps she should have brought Dorian. He certainly knew how to play these games. To think like a king.

He’d killed that spider like a blue-blooded witch, though. Not an ounce of mercy.

It shouldn’t have thrilled her the way it did.

But Manon knew her pride would never recover, and she’d never again be able to call herself a witch, if she let him do this task for her.

So Manon shouldered through Glennis’s tent flaps without announcing herself. “I need to speak to you.”

She found Glennis buckling on her glamoured cloak before a tiny bronze mirror. “Prior to breakfast? I suppose you got that urgency from your father. Tristan was always rushing into my tent with his various pressing matters. I could barely convince him to sit still long enough to eat.”