The Kings Shadow

Mara balanced the silver tray on her hip and tried not to fantasize about braining the Vampire King with it.

The tray itself was innocent enough—polished metal, crystal goblets, a decanter of blood so old it smelled like pennies and smoke. The problem was what she was wearing while she carried it.

The “uniform.”

If you could even call it that.

The skirt was so short she was sure any wrong bend would start an interspecies war. The black fabric hugged her hips and flared indecently, trimmed in white lace that did nothing to hide how much leg it showed. The corseted top cinched her waist and pushed her chest up like an offering on a platter. A tiny white apron tied around her middle, as if that somehow made the outfit respectable.

And the ribbon.

A black satin ribbon was knotted around her throat, the bow sitting neatly over her pulse like a promise she hadn’t agreed to.

All because of one stupid sentence.

“I’ll do whatever you want, if you get me out of this.”

She’d meant the dungeon.

The cell.

The execution she’d been promised two years ago when the vampires caught her cleaning up a demon massacre without their permission.

Valen, King of the Vampires, had taken her at her word.

He had spared her life, dragged her into his castle, and given her a new one.

Magical cleanup crew.

Bloodstain remover.

Shadow-witch maid.

And today, apparently, entertainment.

The throne room doors loomed ahead of her, carved from dark oak, inlaid with silver sigils. Two armored guards opened them as she approached, their eyes sweeping over her outfit with identical, barely concealed smirks.

“Don’t,” she warned under her breath as she passed.

They didn’t say a word, but she heard the quiet huff of amusement behind her.

Mara pressed her lips together and stepped into the room.

The throne hall of Valen’s citadel was designed to make people feel small. High ceilings ribbed with black stone, walls lined with flickering torches that burned cold blue instead of gold, a long strip of red carpet running straight down the middle like a trail of blood leading to the dais. Vampire courtiers lounged along the edges, draped in velvet and silk, predator eyes tracking everything and everyone.

And there he was.

Valen reclined on the obsidian throne like the whole world bored him. One hand rested on the armrest, fingers curling lazily over the carved wolf heads. The other held a crystal goblet, dark liquid swirling as he rolled his wrist. His coat—black, always black—was unbuttoned at the throat, showing the faintest hint of pale skin and the edge of a silver pendant resting against his collarbone.

He didn’t look at her.

Not at first.

“Approach,” he said, voice low and smooth, vibrating through the air like a spell.

Mara’s jaw tightened. She walked the length of the carpet, every step a careful balance between not tripping and not storming back out. The vampires along the sides lifted their heads, conversations fading to a hushed interest.

She stopped at the base of the steps to his throne.

This was the part she hated.

“Bow,” Valen said, finally looking at her.

His eyes were a deep, unnatural crimson. They swept over her from head to toe, slow and assessing. The look itself felt like fingers on her skin.

Mara’s fingers tightened on the tray.

“No,” she said.

The word landed in the silence like a dropped blade.

Someone hissed. Another courtier laughed softly, the sound sharp with disbelief. The air seemed to pull tighter, cold and heavy, as if the castle itself were holding its breath.

Valen didn’t move for a long moment.

Then he set his goblet down. The soft clink of crystal on stone was somehow louder than the murmurs around them.

“You promised obedience,” he reminded her, voice soft enough that only the nearest vampires and Mara could hear.

“I promised work,” she shot back. “I’m cleaning your palace, not your boots.”

A ripple of shock moved through the room.

Valen rose from the throne with unhurried grace, each movement precise, predatory. He descended the steps one at a time, the heels of his boots tapping against the stone. Mara forced herself to stay still. She would not back away. She would not give him that.

He stopped in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back slightly to meet his gaze. Up close, he was even worse—tall, broad-shouldered, all sculpted muscle and ancient power wrapped in tailored black. He smelled like cold air, old magic, and something darker beneath it all.

His gaze slid over the uniform again, slower this time.

“You don’t approve of my gift?” he murmured.

Heat climbed up the back of her neck. “If this is a gift, I’d hate to see your idea of punishment.”

He hummed, amused. “You wear it well.”

“I wasn’t given a choice.”

“You were given a life.” His eyes sharpened. “You are in my halls, under my protection, because you begged for it. And now you balk at a little fabric?”

A little fabric.

Right.

She swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

“I’m not kneeling,” she said again, more quietly this time but no less firm.

Valen’s gaze dropped to the ribbon around her throat. He reached out, and Mara’s muscles locked as his fingers brushed the satin, adjusting the bow with infuriating care.

His knuckles grazed the hollow of her throat.

Her heartbeat stuttered, then raced.

He heard that.

Of course he did.

His eyes lifted to hers, crimson darkening.

“The problem,” he murmured, “is not the uniform, little witch. It’s that you think you can wear it and still pretend you’re not mine while you’re in this castle.”

“I’m not yours,” she said, voice steady even as her pulse thundered.

His hand left her ribbon only to trail up, slow and deliberate, until his fingers curled under her chin. He lifted, forcing her to tilt her head just that little bit more.

The tray wobbled in her hand. She dug her nails into the underside to steady it.

“Look at you,” Valen said softly. “Defiance dressed like obedience.”

He turned his head slightly, studying her as if she were a painting he was deciding whether to keep or burn.

“Turn,” he commanded.

She stared.

“Excuse me?”

“Turn,” he repeated, a thread of steel in his voice. “Slowly.”

She should have refused. She wanted to refuse.

Instead, Mara exhaled through her nose and did as he ordered, pivoting on her heel with small, controlled steps. The skirt flared around her thighs in a flick of black and white. The whisper of fabric against her skin made her acutely aware of just how much of her was exposed.

She felt his gaze like hands on her back, sliding down, lingering.

“Stop,” he said when she’d turned full circle.

She faced him again. Her cheeks burned. She refused to look away.

“Hm.” Valen stepped closer. The space between them shrank to almost nothing. The tray was the only thing left between their bodies, pressed lightly against her stomach.

He reached past it, fingers brushing the fabric of her corset, straightening a wrinkle that didn’t need straightening. His touch was light, impersonal. It didn’t matter. Her nerves lit up anyway, traitorous.

“Acceptable,” he finally said.

“So glad I pass inspection,” Mara muttered.

His lips curved, not quite a smile. “You pass for now.”

Her temper flared. “Your Majesty,” she added, lacing the title with all the sarcasm she could muster, “if you’re done playing dress-up, there’s actual work I should be doing.”

A murmur of disbelief swept through the court.

Valen’s hand dropped back to his side. His expression cooled from faint amusement to something unreadable.

“Work,” he echoed. “Yes. You will clean the east wing after this. Personally.”

The east wing. Where all the high-ranking guests stayed.

Mara nodded stiffly. “Fine.”

“And, Mara?”

She stilled. He rarely used her name.

“You will wear that,” he said, eyes flicking down once more, “for the rest of the week. In every hall of my castle.”

Her breath caught. “You can’t be serious.”

His gaze hardened. “You are under my roof because I chose to spare your life. Do not test how far that mercy extends.”

The threat coiled around her, cold and real.

She swallowed her pride so hard it hurt. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

He studied her for a beat longer, the tension between them stretching to a breathless, electric line.

“You may go,” Valen said at last.

Mara turned on her heel and walked away, each step measured. She could feel eyes on her legs, on the sway of the skirt, on the ribbon at her throat.

She didn’t let herself speed up until she was through the doors and down the corridor, out of sight. Then she pushed the tray into the hands of a startled lower servant and kept walking until her knees gave out and she had to stop.

She leaned her forehead against the cool stone wall and exhaled shakily.

“I hate him,” she whispered.

The wall, unhelpfully, had no opinion.

By the time she made it back to the servants’ quarters, the sun had fully set and the castle had shifted into its nighttime rhythm—softer footsteps, distant laughter edged in hunger, the faint, metallic perfume of fresh blood carried through the vents.

Her shared room was on the lower level, two tiny beds shoved against opposite walls, a curtain half-drawn between them. It smelled like laundry detergent, old candles, and the faint ozone scent of damp magic.

Kira was already there, sprawled sideways on her mattress with a deck of cards hovering above her hand, flipping themselves in lazy shuffles. Her neon-streaked hair was piled on top of her head, and she’d drawn tiny protective sigils on her socks in glitter pen.

“Finally,” Kira said without looking up. “I was about to start a search party. Or sneak into the kitchens without you, which is arguably worse.”

Mara kicked the door shut behind her and flopped face-first onto her bed in one dramatic motion.

“I hate him,” she said into the blanket.

Kira snapped her fingers. The cards fell in a neat stack. She peeked over the curtain.

“Which ‘him’ is this?” she asked. “The King, the asshole guard who thinks he’s funny, or the kitchen boy who keeps flirting with you?”

Mara rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “The King.”

“Ah.” Kira slid off her bed and came to sit on the edge of Mara’s. Her eyes went wide as she took in the outfit properly. “Oh. Oh. Okay, I see we’re in a new phase of our forced employment.”

“Don’t,” Mara groaned. “If you say ‘cute,’ I will light your hair on fire.”

Kira pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a laugh. “I was going to say ‘deeply unethical use of power dynamics,’ but sure. Let’s go with cute.”

Mara shoved at her knee. “He made me wear this in front of the entire court.”

“Ouch.”

“And then he did this whole—” She mimicked his voice, low and smooth. “‘Turn. Slowly.’ Like I’m one of his fucking art pieces.”

Kira’s brows climbed. “And you did?”

Mara glared. “Yes, because I enjoy living, thanks.”

“Fair.” Kira lay back beside her, both of them staring up now. “So what else happened? Aside from you parading around like the sexiest dust bunny collector in the kingdom?”

“He inspected me,” Mara muttered.

Kira rolled onto her side. “Define inspected.”

“Straightened my ribbon.” She touched her throat, remembering the light brush of his fingers. “Fixed my corset. Stood so close I couldn’t think.”

“Ah,” Kira said wisely. “So you’re mad because he humiliated you… and you kind of liked it.”

“I did not like it.”

Kira just looked at her.

Mara threw an arm over her face. “Okay, my body is a traitor. That’s not my fault.”

“It never is,” Kira agreed. “Bodies are inconvenient like that.”

“He heard my heartbeat,” Mara whispered, mortified all over again. “You know he did.”

“Oh, definitely,” Kira said. “He probably hears it now while you’re ranting. Maybe it soothes him to sleep. Like a white noise machine.”

Mara snorted despite herself. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, you love me.”

She did. Kira was one of the very few people in this castle she trusted at all.

“Seriously, though,” Kira said more softly. “You okay?”

Mara hesitated.

Valen’s hand under her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

His voice, quiet and certain: You will kneel for me.

She shivered.

“I’m fine,” she lied. “I just have to get through this week without murdering the king or dying of embarrassment. That’s all.”

“Oh, is that all?” Kira huffed a laugh and flopped back again. “Easy.”

Mara stared at the ceiling until the patterns in the stone blurred. Somewhere above them, in the higher levels of the castle, Valen moved through his rooms and halls, ruling a kingdom built on blood and fear.

She was a shadow in his house.

A servant in a too-short skirt.

And yet, when he looked at her…

for one dangerous second, she hadn’t felt small at all.

She’d felt seen.

Mara rolled onto her side and curled up, fingers pressed lightly over the ribbon at her throat.

“I hate him,” she whispered again.

Her heartbeat said something else entirely.