The King's Cursed Bride

Broken and Beautiful

Author's Note: Some things are more beautiful for having been broken.

And this chapter is dedicated to one of my other wonderful readers: victoria353! She's also been with me before I started KCB, and she's even checked on me a few times if I've been late with an update, since you guys know how consistent I am. She just wanted to make sure something tragic hadn't impeded the update 😉

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Without waiting for a reply, Elon stepped forward, and the group of men surged backwards. "Where is she?" He scanned the crowd again—almost frantically.

Carissa swallowed past her tight throat. Was he looking... for her? She was the only other nightwoman. Her body quivered with each beat of her heart. Did he know who she was, outside of a nightwoman? She attempted to clear her throat, so she could call to him, but a solid wall of pain slammed into her. She was practically mute.

One of the men stepped forward. "What would you be willing to give for this nightwoman?"

If her breath didn't singe her throat, Carissa would have gasped at his audacity.

The King's unwavering gaze settled on the man. "Anything."

The man rubbed his grimy hands together.

"Though I'd be wary of naming a price, were I you." His hand curled around the pommel of his sword. "I'm not unwilling to fight my way to her, if need be."

The knights rustled outside the cell, their armor clanking as they shifted to grab their swords, but the King stilled them with a raised palm.

The man swallowed audibly and shook his head. "No need for that, no need for that. We're about done with her, so none of us would protest if you took what's left."

Shame washed over her and seeped into the pores of her skin. The King was able to take her without a fight only because no one else wanted her. Why would he want her? She didn't even deserve his gaze to alight on her—much less to marry him.

"She's right here. Your highness."

The men around her shifted away, clearing a path from her to the King. Her gaze was too heavy to lift as she suddenly became aware of how he must see her. Her hair dangling in oily strands around her pale countenance. The hollows digging into her cheeks. Her tear tracks slicing through the blood and snot and grunge soiling her face. The shredded dress dangling from her body, displaying bruised expanses of skin.

His polished boots drew closer. Even in the jailhouse, they shone so flawlessly she could see her own reflection. She lowered her gaze to the stone in front of her, unable to bear her own disgust at the sight.

He stopped in front of her. She curled her dirt-tipped fingernails into her palm, resisting the urge to reach out and brush his boots to ensure he was a solid being rather than a phantom. But if she did, she'd ruin his boots, and they were probably worth more than she was.

To her surprise, he knelt by her, the grime-coated floor smearing his pants.

This gave her enough courage to lift her gaze to his chest. "Your majesty."

"Carissa."

Her breath caught, and her courage lost, her gaze dipped to the floor. He knew who she was. And he knew what she'd done—that she was as damaged and dirty within as she was without. Her breaths were coming so fast and hard that the pain slammed into her with the constancy of waves.

"I'm so s–sorry."

Her voice broke, and agony clamped her chest. Whether it was because of her injuries or the maelstrom ravaging her heart, she was unsure. The two different pains were practically indistinguishable.