Bride of the Corpse King Read Online Emily Shore

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 145153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 581(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
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“I will have you on my throne. And worship you like the goddess you are.”
Flowers have followed Isla Adayra her whole life. Things are no different in the City of the Dead.
After volunteering to be Bride of the Corpse King to save her family, Isla sets a course to woo the God of Death. From seducing him with her corpus roses to accepting his mark of Death, Isla must keep him from reaping her soul.
With Death in his cursed form, the Corpse King, Allysteir, meets his match with Isla and her passion. It isn’t long before his feeble heart falls for the girl who eats forbidden fruit and grows roses and thorns from her flesh. But could she truly tempt Death? And break their land’s Curse?

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Underneath the mountains so lonely and deep

The Corpse King closes his eyes to sleep

With black shroud and bones for hands

His rotted shade flies ‘cross the land

After sun has fallen and dusk is nigh

Listen for his shadow lullaby

He brings death to the roses as he seeks

The souls of the old, the wild, and the weak

Fret not, my child and close your eyes

Dream of sweet heather and butterflies

I will lament when your body first bleeds

And pray over bones and pomegranate seeds

The Corpse King accepts the curse of Death

So dance the night away at his Feast of Flesh

And there I will weep knowing you cannot hide

For he’ll take you to be his maidyan bride

~A Mother’s Song for Her Daughter~

The Corpse King needs a new bride.

With the knowledge chilling my spine, I hand my sealed summons to the flesh-master, push my shoulders back, and set my jaw, praying he won’t realize it’s forged. Forging an elder’s summons could land me in an Ithydeir prison. Sneaking into the King’s Underworld to enter the Bone Games would land me in much worse. If I get caught.

After the master inspects the elder seal, he pinches his lips, scrutinizing me. I raise my chin, neck regal-high. Around his throat dangling from a leather cord is a proud wishbone: a gift inherited from an ancestor, no doubt. I sigh longingly at the beautiful piece which could pay off months’ worth of my family’s debt. Half consider swiping it, but it’s too risky.

Stop staring, I chastise myself and lift my eyes to the flesh-master’s. Provided that weasel-faced Ganyx gave me accurate information, I’ll walk away with enough rare bones to fund the farm for the next year.

“Quite a summons for a girl from the humble homestead of Cock-Cross,” remarks the flesh-master, chuckling at the name of our little farming town famed for its rooster bones. I almost chuckle, too until he opens his mouth, jagged teeth flashing.

Biting a groan from his intimidation tactic, I ball my clammy hands into fists to prevent them from shaking and stare him down, daring him to try and claim me. Those teeth and their keen claws are the differences between us and the elite Feyal-Ithydeir―the flesh-eaters.

And only the elders may practice bone magic. I resist the urge to squeeze my shoulders because I’ve forged the highest elder’s seal. Since my father has dealt with Elder Kanat in the past, it was familiar.

Pressing my determined lips together, I weave the truth into my response with an edge to my voice as I lie through my teeth, “Yes, I traveled all day to answer Elder Kanat’s summons. I’m certain he wishes to finish his cases and join the festivities.”

Tonight is the Feast of Flesh. I won’t get another chance.

Mathyr’s tears when I’d dragged my bleeding father back home still haunt me. I stiffen, remembering how I’d stabbed my scyan into the eth-gharym, damned, crazed refters after one had sunk its teeth into Fathyr’s shoulder. Sucking refter venom from his flesh was not on my to-do list two nights ago. Thanks to the mender, he will live, but menders are expensive.

I have no choice but to play the Bone Games.

As if testing me, the flesh-master’s eyes drift across my young and unmarked flesh. I tense. An unclaimed and unescorted human girl is a high target at the Corpse King’s nationwide masked ball, especially when he’s invited all races to his Citadel of Bones.

He’s desperate for a new bride. Tonight is the last opportunity for the King to appease the God of Death: Aryahn Kryach. Feathery ice crawls along my flesh. The last thing I must ever be is a Feyal-bride.

Behind me, an impatient Wisp-Shee hisses, baring her pointed teeth. She spreads her translucent wings to intimidate, but with gold-lined veins and edges decorated in gemstone flecks, she doesn’t intimidate much. Instead, I smirk and hiss, wagging my mother’s iron charm around my neck in a warning: iron is deadly to the Shee. She wrinkles her nose but steps back. Yes, I’m unescorted but never defenseless. I grin from the cold metal of my scyan kissing my inner thigh beneath my gown. After a lifetime of slaying refters, I’m prepared for any Shee or their Sythe cousins who may plunge their fangs or teeth into my blood.


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