8

Hoping for the best did fuck-all. I got chewed to the bone by marsh-wights, and I lost my whip—though I did manage to get my hands on the Wraith’s Scythe.

After everything I went through to retrieve the weapon for Celinda, watching it fail against the anklet drains the last dregs of hope from my heart… a heart which is beating, raw and exposed, through the cage of my gnawed rib-bones as I lie on Celinda’s cot in the cellar.

There’s one bright spot in the torment: Celinda is beside herself with concern for me. By some miracle of the god-stars, she kisses me. Not for a bargain, but because she wants to. And then, when she finds out that sex can speed the healing process, she climbs on my cock… because she cares about me.

At least that’s what I hope and believe, until it’s over and she says casually that she was happy to do me a favor. Apparently she didn’t sense the soaring bliss between us, the beautiful connection of her soul and mine during sex. She simply needed me on my feet in good condition, so I could prepare her for the next ball. That was her only purpose in fucking me, and that knowledge hurts worse than the marsh-wights’ teeth.

Spurred by a vicious sort of self-pity, I make her a dress from the blood my body spilled for her. And then, weak from wounds that are still healing, I portal from the cellar of her house to the King’s bedroom.

I’ve been gone too long. I have to pretend that I sneaked out of the palace for a tryst and spent many hours with my secret lover. The chambermaids seem to buy the excuse but I suspect my guards do not fully believe me. I don’t have time to convince them, though, because I’m supposed to have dinner with my “son,” Prince Brantley, and none other than his intended bride, Celinda herself.

My human blood has never made itself more apparent than it does tonight, as my stomach curdles with acidic anxiety over the prospect of sharing a meal with them.

When Celinda arrives, she’s so obviously nervous that my own unrest eases a bit. Every minute that I watch her throughout the meal, I grow angrier with her and more frustrated with myself.

This situation is untenable. I can’t keep pretending to be the King while she’s being courted by my “son.” I can’t keep deceiving her like this. I can’t linger in her life, giving her a false hope of freedom, when in truth of I have no way of ensuring her liberty.

I’m going to tell her the truth. Tonight.

As soon as the meal is over, I speak up. “Celinda, there’s a chamber prepared for you upstairs if you need to freshen up before the ball. I’ll escort you there, if you like.”

I half-expect her to protest, to do the noble thing and put some distance between herself and her soon-to-be fiancé’s father. But she merely replies, “That would be lovely, thank you. ”

Waving away the guards who try to follow us, I guide her upstairs to a spare bedroom, which is kept ready for visiting dignitaries. I’m ready to confess, ready to end this pretense and face the consequences.

And yet, once we’re in the room and she turns to face me, every word I’d planned to say flies out of my head, and I’m left speechless, staring at the beautiful girl who owns my heart, my body, and my mind.

Once I tell the truth, she won’t want me. She won’t ever touch me again. She’ll dismiss me from her life, and she’ll be right to do it.

Her scent suffuses every breath I take, sets my blood on fire. There’s a pulling sensation deep in my bones—an irresistible, magnetic force that draws me toward her.

I remember my Aunt Louisa telling úna and me the story of how King Lirannon crawled to her through a snowstorm, even though his eyes were blinded, his body was broken, and his sense of smell was gone. The bond between them was so powerful that even the most devious magic could not break it.

I tell myself that’s how I feel about Celinda. That my blood roars for her, that my flesh screams for her, that I ache to be inside her because we’re meant for each other, she and I. A voice in my mind warns me that this is selfishness, not love, yet I don’t heed the warning.

When I speak, it isn’t a confession. “Kneel before your King, Celinda.”

“Your Majesty, we should talk,” she says, but she’s eyeing my hands, watching my fingers as I remove my belt and unfasten my pants. She wants me, too—craves me against her better judgment. The blood-red gown crumples around her as she kneels for me.

“Don’t come on my dress this time,” she murmurs. “I’ll swallow it. ”

Oh… fuck. My pre-cum has no taste, but if I release fully into her mouth, she’ll recognize the vanilla flavor. She’ll know the truth of my identity instantly. Coward that I am, it’s too much for me to face.

Swearing silently, I stuff my cock back into my pants and retrieve my belt. “We can’t do this. Not now.”

She frowns. “How responsible of you.”

“I simply realized that as much as I want to make a mess of you, I should wait until after the ball.”

“Until I’m engaged to your son?” She gets to her feet, her voice stricken with despair.

“He may ask you,” I say. “You do not have to accept.”

Part of me wants Celinda to break, to declare her love for the King recklessly, to reject his son. Even if the King isn’t me , exactly, it would be at least somewhat gratifying to my pride.

But she doesn’t answer.

“Unless you do plan to accept,” I say.

Her lips tighten. I can’t tell if she’s reluctant to confess the truth, or if she’s bound by her stepmother’s will.

“I see.” I keep my tone cold and even. “Then I will leave you to prepare for the ball. You and I will dance, and after that, we will be nothing to each other except polite acquaintances, and eventually, relatives. You will be my… daughter .”

I speak the word on purpose, convinced that it will drive her mad. When she doesn’t react, I can feel my frustration ebbing away, leaving only weariness in its place—weariness, and the pain of wounds that, beneath my glamour, are not quite healed. I can’t help releasing a sigh, heavy with the ache of everything I have tried and failed to do over the past few days.

Celinda’s face changes and she leaps for me, catching me in a hug and kissing me full on the mouth with such passionate force I nearly stagger backward. But I manage to stand firm and wrap my arms around her in return .

She kisses me wildly, fervently, painfully. It’s a tormented kiss, a wordless goodbye.

What would the King say in this moment? What concern would he share with her if this ruse were real? What threads remain left untied between them that he would want to secure?

“Your friend,” I murmur against her mouth. “The one for whom you were searching the Faerie spellbooks…”

“Never mind that right now.” She kisses me again, more tenderly this time. Her tongue travels the inside of my mouth—and then I feel her hesitate a moment before cautiously tracing the shape of my teeth and tongue. Something in the tension of her body alarms me.

I’m glamoured to look and feel like the King, but is it possible that I don’t feel like him inside ? Could her tongue recognize the true shape of mine, or the taste of my mouth?

I pull away, ending the kiss abruptly. “Goodbye,” I tell her, and I leave the room.

The second I’m in the hallway, I portal back to the King’s chamber. When the servants knock several minutes later, I let them in and submit to their ministrations as they prepare me for a ball I cannot avoid, where I’ll see Celinda again. Like a fucking idiot, I promised to dance with her. I shouldn’t fulfill that promise, but it’s too thrilling a temptation to resist.

My life at the moment feels like a bit of flotsam from a broken ship, a piece of wreckage circling round and round the lethal center of a whirlpool. Though I know the inevitable end, I can’t seem to break free from the sucking force of the current. I have no defense against the desire to be with Celinda, to savor her scent, to feel the responsive tremor of her body within my grasp.

I am the King and the King is me. She wants us both, but she craves him more freely and openly, and I’m addicted to her desire .

So I dance with her at the ball, drinking in her sweet scent, trying to memorize the feel of her waist beneath my palm, the sensation of her fingers laced with mine. I want to treasure these memories until the end of my existence.

“You were right,” she says lightly as we dance. “The shoes are quite comfortable.”

I reply automatically, with a smile. “I told you they would be.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I realize my mistake.

Shit.

Gods-fuck .

Her eyes are wide with triumphant horror, with enraged betrayal.

In my own soul, two vastly different emotions clash together. Guilty sorrow, because I know the wrong I’ve done—and a sense of relief, because the deception is finally over. My wickedness has been exposed, for better or worse. I am revealed and undone before her, and all I can do now is try, with my heart and my body, to make amends.