The King's Cursed Bride

Cursed

Author's Note: Big thanks to @victoria353 for reminding me to publish today's draft into a chapter!

And I just wanted to give you guys a huge 'thank you' and a hug 💖 I don't respond to your comments as quickly or consistently as I should, but I see every single one--thanks to the notifications on my phone--and absolutely adore them. As I was typing the last chapter, I kept on thinking about what a terrible write I was and how it was going to be a loser chapter, and your comments just brightened my day. Thanks again!

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Carissa blinked at the tidy stack of coins before scooping it into her apron pocket. It was the biggest tip she'd gotten all day. If only this money had arrived yesterday, then perhaps her back wouldn't be burning as fiercely as it was. "Why, thank you, sir."

His cheeks dimpled, and his dark eyes brightened. "You're quite welcome, m'lady."

M'lady? She blushed at the formal title and pivoted to attend another table. Anyone would know a mere serving woman wouldn't have the title 'm'lady.' Maybe it was a means of charming her. She plucked a rag from her other apron pocket and scrubbed at a sticky spot on the table.

If he wanted to charm her, he'd have to do better than a generous tip and sweet words. He'd have to have gentle hands and a tender gaze the color of oceans. Her wiping slowed.

Leaving Viltus when the lock-down stopped was going to be a problem. She could barely stop thinking about him, much less leave him. But she'd cross that stream when she came to it.

She swept to another table, brimming with begrimed men and crowded with empty mugs. "I see you've finished. May I take your—"

A bell clang caused the glass mugs to ping against each other and rattle against the table.

Her chest knotted before she remembered that today wasn't yesterday. A bell clang wouldn't mean another whipping.

She stuffed her rag into her pocket, swiped her hands on her apron, and flashed the men an apologetic smile before scurrying towards the kitchen.

The orange fire of the ovens blurred the clustering people into silhouettes. She joined the press of bodies, sipping thimblefuls of air so she didn't have to smell the others' sweat-dampened clothing.

The Cook's voice drowned the raspy whispers of those around her. "Vatai, you're going to be scrubbing dishes now. Bura, you'll be serving in bow. Tara—"

The air in the room suddenly chilled her skin.

"—you'll be tending the fires. Back to work."

Tending the fires. Surely that couldn't be difficult. The crowd thinned as crewmembers strode to their tasks. Her slippers slapped the time-polished wood, ribbons of smoke stung her nose, and sweat prickled beneath the bandage on her forearm as she neared the cooking area. If the pub were a dragon, this was the tumid belly of the beast, where its brew of flames boiled until its monstrous owner deemed it ready

"Watch where you're going." The man's rebuke snapped through the air like crackling fire.

Carissa turned, and her breath halted. An overturned bucket. Water slipping across the floor. A little boy with arms a breeze thicker than the mop handle he clenched.

The man who'd overturned the bucket grimaced at his soaked shoes before marching to his station, sending speckles of water flying.

It almost seemed to be a nightmarish replaying of yesterday.

Other than the tightening of his lips, the boy's expression was purged of emotion. He scrubbed the tattered mop against the wood, causing ripples in the puddle to unfurl.