The King's Cursed Bride

Hated

Author's Note: Above is the City of Zonah. Lovely, huh?

***

Her throat went dry. "He's... gone?"

The woman lifted her thick shoulders. She was surprisingly stout, given the lockdown. "Haven't seen the boy in a few days."

Carissa raked her fingers through her hair, rumpling her braid. "Where could he have gone?"

"Probably took the money you gave him and left." The mole next to the corner of her mouth bounced as she spoke.

Carissa glanced up, and the woman flinched—probably at the unsightly burn. "No, he didn't. He wouldn't. How long has he been gone?"

She shrugged. "Few days."

"How many?"

The woman harrumphed. "How am I supposed to know, eh? I'm not his mother, am I?"

Carissa clenched her trembling fists at her sides to keep from grabbing the woman by her stained collar and shaking her. "Of course not." She pivoted and marched out of the inn—until a fierce ache ignited her ribs. Then she resigned herself to a less-than-impressive shuffle.

Worry pummeled her chest. Where could Hawke possibly have gone? How was she going to find him? She twirled around. Dirty face, cheeks jutting. Rickety wooden stalls. Stores with fogged and cracked glass panes. And there were streets—everywhere. Main roads gushing past buildings. Alleyways slinking around the corners. Hard dirt paths curling around houses.

How would she ever find him?

Carissa slowed her turning, a ragged sigh tearing past her lips. She'd left after Viltus had. He probably thought she was resting at his house. If she appeared in the healing tower, it was more likely he'd order her back to his house than help her search.

Viltus... Just his name was enough to cause a hot twist of anger in her chest, only to cool moments later, leaving her feeling hollow and gutted. She didn't want to think about him right now.

She straightened her figure as best she could, with pain throbbing through her back and chest. She had an entire city to search, so she might as well start.

***

Carissa swayed as she strode down the fifty-seventh alley she'd checked. The sun had sapped the coolness from the morning.

Her vision blurred and she leaned against a building. Her stomach had shriveled so tightly she wasn't sure she'd be able to eat anything even if she had food. She'd remembered what she'd last eaten—a bitter, watery gruel, sprinkled with a few oats—but when had she last eaten? Yesterday? The day before?

Her head ached as fiercely as her body. She needed water. Her tongue felt like a lump of sand paper in her mouth. She hauled in a breath and shoved off the building.

She turned one more alley. Then another. Each step was becoming torture. She was so exhausted she nearly overlooked a lump of tattered cloth pooled by a building. The folds gently rose and fell with soft breaths.

She stumbled nearer. "Hello?"

No answer.

Perhaps a cat had nestled itself beneath the cloth? She lifted the fabric, and a gasp stuck in her throat. "Hawke?"

His lashes fluttered, but his lids didn't lift.

"Hawke!" She knelt and shook his shoulder. His shirt clung to his bony shoulders by shreds. Bruises flecked his cheeks, his lips were scabbed and swollen, and the darkened skin beneath his eyes had puffed up.