King Rafferty—or what was left of him—peered at his requested concubine.

“Come,” he ordered from where he sat in a high backed chair. “I won’t be patient for long.”

The King had changed much in recent months. New hungers had revealed themselves, and a cruelty that he’d never shown before has flared its ugly head.

“Hurry up,” he added, eyes glinting dangerously.

He’d chosen this concubine carefully: they possessed information that he needed, that he was sure was key to rooting out the rebels who fought against him. He’d find a way to pry it out of them: for better or worse.