Page 52 of The Midnight King
“I understand now why you wouldn’t come in my mouth as the King. I would have recognized the way you taste.”
Heat burns in his lavender eyes. “Yes.”
Though I’m furious with him, my anger doesn’t carry the same poison of bitterness and resentment that I feel when I think of my stepmother. He behaved badly, yet his motives weren’t entirely selfish. He craved not just our physical connection, but my comfort, safety, and happiness.
I’m torn—horribly, wretchedly torn—between wanting to drive a dagger into his perfect chest and wanting to ride his face while he writes his apology on my clit with his tongue.
“You need to stop being so fucking beautiful,” I tell him firmly. “And you need to get out of my sight and give me time to process all this. Go be the King again, before someone comes looking for you.”
“The servants and guards arealwayshovering.” He gets to his feet and brushes off his suit. “It’s dreadfully annoying.”
“Poor little lying bastard,” I say derisively. “Go and suffer. I’ll return to the ballroom when I’m ready.”
After he leaves, I don’t cry anymore. I take a few minutes to breathe. To understand that the King is dead, a fact that will soon have to be revealed to the kingdom. To comprehend that within the hour, I will likely be engaged to the Crown Prince who doesn’t yet realize that he is, in fact, the new ruler of the land. To understand that my Faerie godfather is madly in love with me… and that he began our relationship with an inexcusable deception. To absorb the fact that he’s determined to save me, and not only me, but Brantley as well.
I’m used to coping with disappointment and misery. I’m not quite as adept at managing fear alongside hope, or holding space for both anger and love.
But I have always lived with uncertainty, and I’ve always found a place within myself where I can be safe and strong, nomatter what commands bind me or what abuse I’m forced to endure. I can’t deny that since Killian came into my life, it has been better, not worse. I have smiled more in these few days of knowing him, both as the King and as himself, than I have foryears.
I refuse to forgive him so quickly. And yet I fear that somewhere deep in my heart, I already have.
When I return to the ballroom, the Prince is quick to find me. I try to focus on him, though I glimpse the King—Killian—dancing with Vashli across the room.
“There you are,” Brantley says, pulling me aside rather than leading me out among the other dancers. “I wonder if you’d come with me into the garden. Do you have a wrap?”
“Not tonight,” I admit.
“I’ll have someone fetch you a coat.” He leads me into the front hall and speaks to a servant, who disappears for a moment and returns with a fur-trimmed jacket cut short enough to accommodate my voluminous skirts. The servant hands me gloves for my hands as well.
My nerves tighten as Brantley escorts me outside into the snowy garden. It’s not hard to guess what he’s up to. This is the moment I’ve been expecting—dreadful yet inevitable.
He faces me, then reaches stiffly for my hand. “Celinda, I have enjoyed your company very much these past few days.”
“I’ve enjoyed yours as well, Your Highness.”
“I believe you have the temperament, the kindness, and the intelligence I am looking for in my future Queen. Therefore I would like to ask if you will accept my hand in marriage. Will you be my wife, and one day take the throne at my side?”
I want to ask him if he has really thought about this, if this is an emotionless, practical choice or if he has considered the true wishes of his own heart. But my stepmother’s command won’t allow any such discussion, and I hear myself saying, in acool voice that doesn’t sound like mine, “I accept. But I have one request.”
“And what is that?” he replies.
“I would like to marry one week from today. Why should we delay our partnership? The sooner we are married, the sooner we can begin working as a team.”
“That is a splendid idea,” he says. “I believe that once a decision is made, it should be carried out promptly. In this we are aligned, as I’m sure we shall be on everything else.”
Despondent though I am for his sake, I can’t help smiling a little. It’s just like him to see the logic and expediency of a quick marriage rather than a lengthy engagement. He has made his choice—why should he waste any more time?
He reaches into his pocket and produces a heavy gold ring with a vivid blue stone at the center. “This was my mother’s ring. I would give it to you now, but the engagement is supposed to be a secret until the feast tomorrow night. So I will present it to you then, if you’re agreeable.”
“Of course,” I reply. As my stepmother ordered, I will be the most docile and agreeable fiancée he could imagine.
The Prince doesn’t try to kiss me. I don’t think the idea enters his mind at all. He simply tucks the ring back into his pocket, and we return to the ballroom to dance and converse. He doesn’t drink, but he fetches me wine at my request. I gulp it down, convinced it’s the best way to get through the evening.
The wine makes me feel warm, comfortable, and far less worried, so a little later I indulge in a second glass. Then, while Brantley is dancing with another guest, I sneak a third glass from a butler’s tray.
A low voice at my side suggests, “Perhaps you should switch to water. Or coffee.”
“Fuck coffee, and fuck you,” I mutter.