Page 83 of The Midnight King
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’tme, exactly, it would be at least somewhat gratifying to my pride.
But she doesn’t answer.
“Unless youdoplan 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.