Rule of Wolves (King of Scars, #2)

by Leigh Bardugo

“Men who see too much have a way of losing their eyes.” “And queens who trust too little have a way of losing their thrones.”

“Be charming,” he warned her under his breath. She flashed him a warm smile and a wink. “I will.” “That was very convincing.” The smile vanished in an instant. “I’ve had to watch you smarm all over Ravka for years. I’ve learned a few tricks.” “I don’t smarm.” “Occasionally you smarm,” said Tolya. “Yes,” conceded Nikolai. “But it’s endearing.”

“On my command,” he said. “This is a terrible idea,” moped Adrik. “I have a surplus of bad ideas,” said Nikolai. “I have to spend them somewhere.”

Sometimes she wondered if she’d made a mistake leaving her friends in Ketterdam. She missed Inej’s stillness, the knowledge that she could say anything to her without fear of recrimination. She missed Jesper’s laughing ways and Wylan’s sweetness. She even missed Kaz’s ruthlessness. Saints, it would have been a relief to hand over this whole mess to the bastard of the Barrel. He’d have sussed out Vadik Demidov’s origins, raided the Fjerdan treasury, and placed himself on the throne in the time it took Nina to braid her hair. On second thought, probably best Kaz wasn’t here.

But what if Hanne could be happy here, happy with her family, with a husband to love her? What if she could finally find the acceptance she’d sought for so long? Besides, it wasn’t as if she and Nina were going to have a future together, since Nina had every intention of murdering her father.

It was bad enough Opjer cared nothing for the bastard son he’d sired, but to add insult to injury by trying to deny him a perfectly good throne? It spoke of a fundamental lack of manners.

“You smell like wildflowers. You always do. What can I say to make you stay?” His words trailed off into a drowsy mumble as he fell back asleep. Tell me it’s more than war and worry that makes you speak those words. Tell me what they would mean if you weren’t a king and I weren’t a soldier. But she didn’t want to hear any of that, not really. Sweet words and grand declarations were for other people, other lives. She brushed the hair back from his face, placed a kiss on his forehead. “I would stay forever if I could,” she whispered. He wouldn’t remember anyway.

The world might crumble, but Nikolai Lantsov would be holding up the ceiling with one hand and plucking a speck of dirt from his lapel with the other when it all went to ruin.

Nikolai leaned against the wall. “I’m sorry we don’t visit more often. There’s a war on and, well, no one likes you.” The Darkling touched a hand to his chest. “You wound me.” “All in due time,” said Zoya.

“You are pink and rather hairless. Like a baby, and people love babies.” Actually, she looked more like the hairless cat his aunt Ludmilla had favored more than any of her children, but that seemed an impolitic thing to say to a lady.

Genya planted her hands on her hips. “You will sit yourself down and let me make sure you don’t have a concussion. Then you will have a cup of tea. And then, if I’m feeling generous, you can talk to David about things that explode.” “You do realize I’m the king?” “Do you?” Nikolai looked to David for help, but David just shrugged. “I don’t argue with my wife when she’s right.” “Oh, fine,” said Nikolai. “But I want a cookie with my tea.”

Because I am greedy for the sight of you. Because the prospect of facing this war, this loss, without you fills me with fear. Because I find I don’t want to fight for a future if I can’t find a way to make a future with you.

She clutched her coat tight against the chill in the air. There was nothing else to do but keep moving forward. You chose your path. You walked it. You hoped to find a way home again.

“The captain and her ship are known only as the Wraith, but I have it on good authority that this mysterious Suli woman is Inej Ghafa.” “Never heard of her.” “No?” Nikolai feigned shock. “That surprises me, given her association with the Dregs and her considerable talent for puncturing people with all the zeal of a nearsighted auntie trying to embroider a quilt. But it may be for the best that you have no personal connection.”

“I have some ideas,” said Wylan. “The problem is the nozzles, right?” “Nozzles?” said Jesper. “Yes,” said Nikolai. “For launching and directing the rocket.” “That is a ridiculous word,” said Jesper. “It’s an accurate word,” objected Wylan. “And slightly ridiculous. May I?” Nikolai nodded, and Wylan began to sketch something onto the schematic.

He peered at her. “That sounds suspiciously hopeful. What have you done with my doomsaying general?” “We’re not helpless. Novels are full of ragtag bands facing impossible odds.” “Do you read novels?” “When I have the time.” “So, no.”

“Will he … will he offer for her?” Ylva asked. She’d been delighted at the notice Hanne had garnered from the prince, but this was not attention any girl wanted. “That uncooked cutlet wouldn’t dare do otherwise,” Redvin growled. “Commander Brum would have his head.”

She’d been too afraid to say yes to him, to show him the truth of her longing, to admit that from the first time she’d seen him, she’d known he was the hero of all her aunt’s stories, the boy with the golden spirit full of light and hope. All Saints, Zoya wanted to be near that light, she wanted to feel the warmth of it for as long as she could.

In the stories, love healed your wounds, fixed what was broken, allowed you to go on. But love wasn’t a spell, some kind of benediction to be whispered, a balm or a cure-all. It was a single, fragile thread, which grew stronger through connection, through shared hardship and honored trust.

Outside, night was falling and the sky was full of stars. “I’ll tell you a thousand stories, my love. We’ll write the new endings, one by one.”

“Kiss me, Zoya,” he said. “Why?” “I need reassurance that you are real and that we survived.” Zoya went up on her toes and pressed her warm mouth to his. “I’m right here and I’m freezing, so move before I toss you into a gully.”