Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
A tlas slammed his fist into the wall.
He stared at the crumbling hole of smooth stone, flicking a glance at his bloodied knuckles. The pain was fleeting. He didn’t even feel it.
Anger flowed through his veins, drawing upon a well of rage that continued to fill, a fathomless pit of darkness that only served to stoke his fury.
Damn Everinne. And damn her for denying him.
I reject the bond. I reject you.
Bullshit.
Her words replayed in his mind, her voice cutting through him like a blade of steel fresh from the forge. Hot. Searing. Rendering him utterly useless.
He stalked toward his wardrobe and yanked the door open, ripping it clean off its hinges.
The carved wood splintered and cracked, and he tossed it to the side, discarding the slabs of oak without care.
Grabbing a half-full bottle of honeyfire from the shelf, he tugged the cork out with his teeth and spat it onto the floor.
Atlas swallowed two hasty gulps of the alcohol, enjoying the way the smoky sweet flavor burned the back of his throat.
The audacity of her—telling him to fuck someone else while she wore his mother’s ring, when she would soon be wearing his crown, bearing his last name.
As if he would. So, she believed him to be no more worthy of his station than most of Prava, thought he had every intention of upholding his damning reputation once they married.
Fucking skies.
He gritted his teeth, dragging the bottle of liquor to his lips once again to pull another healthy swig.
Everinne had to be hiding something. A secret.
He wasn’t stupid. He’d read her thoughts like a book when they were on the volt and she’d had his cock in her mouth.
She wanted him then, was practically begging for him without having to say a word.
Not only that, but he’d seen the way her turquoise eyes softened, then glowed when he professed to wanting to touch her.
For years. Even tonight, when she ran away from him and fell into his pool, her thoughts had betrayed her.
Not only was she lying to him, she was lying to herself.
But she’d thrown a barrier around her mind, concealing her emotions and feelings, everything, from him.
It was infuriating.
Maddening.
Atlas raked a hand through his damp hair, shoving the loose blond curls back from his face.
He knew he shouldn’t do it, knew it would probably only make things worse between them, but he didn’t care.
He wanted her to fight with him. Wanted her to argue and seethe until the only thing left to do was kiss her just to shut her up.
And Everinne would let him. Because he was her fucking mate.
He scoured the bond, blazing through it until he thought the thread binding them would fray and snap completely, severing them from one another.
But what he found gutted him. Left him empty with regret and despair.
The slow, steady beating of Everinne’s heart answered his call. But her mind was quiet as broken breaths shuddered through her.
She was crying in her sleep.
He’d done that, he was the reason her tears fell in silence and there was no one there to wipe them away.
Cautiously, Atlas withdrew.
He swirled the decanter of honeyfire once, watching the golden liquid churn.
He finished it off, draining the bottle until it was empty, drowning his frustrations and fury in a sea of smoky sweet alcohol.
The warmth heated him and blurred his senses, but the flavor died on his tongue, tasting only of regret and poor choices.
Pulling his arm back, he launched the empty bottle, watching as it smashed against the opposite wall. Glass shattered, covering the floor of his bedroom like sharpened crystals.
Atlas swayed once, gripping his bedpost with one hand to keep himself steady.
His gaze fixated on his bed where hazy images of a naked Everinne, wet with need and swollen from his kisses, infiltrated his drunken mind.
He could imagine her tangled in his sheets, writhing beneath him, bouncing on top of him as he filled her.
While his magic heightened every sensation, leaving her trembling with pleasure, and her eyes glazed with lust.
He blinked, and the fantasy evaporated.
His erection, however, did not.
He glanced up at the painting above his bed, the one of the lone wolf running through a dark forest, and he could’ve sworn the beast snarled.
“Don’t judge me,” Atlas muttered, stalking into his bathing suite.
Bending over the ivory sink, he turned on the gilded faucet and washed away the blood from his knuckles.
He hissed out a breath as the cold water ran over the gashes.
Despite the fact that the wounds were already closing, the sting was still fresh.
He splashed some water on his face, raking it through his drying hair, then dared to look in the mirror.
His mother’s eyes stared back at him, green and gold but lacking her warmth.
Her kindness.
He wasn’t sure what he expected to see or hoped to find, but the only thing there was the reflection of an image he’d created on his own.
A prince of pleasure. A male who abandoned beds before daybreak because he couldn’t remember the name of the female sleeping next to him.
Who left a trail of broken hearts and vicious rumors in his wake.
Whose magic drew out the best—and worst—in every female who spread their legs for him.
Sometimes his power was too much. Too potent.
He’d lost track of the number of times he’d been bitten, clawed, scratched, and hit right before bringing one of them to climax.
All of that, and he hadn’t even lifted a finger.
Had barely touched them. It drove them mad with lust, so they were crazed and consumed by it.
One female, a witch if he remembered correctly, had grabbed his dick with her pointy nails and tried to force him inside of her.
When Atlas pulled back and refused, she’d punched him square in the jaw.
He hadn’t used his magic on anyone since then.
Until Everinne.
Fucking Everinne, with her perfect mouth, perfect hips, perfect breasts, perfect everything.
Atlas glared at himself in the mirror.
She saw the same thing as everyone else when she looked at him.
A prince unworthy of the crown on his head, who was barred from court politics by his own father, whose entire life had been relegated to drinking and fucking.
Atlas cocked his arm back and punched the mirror.
It shattered, sending hundreds of pieces scattering like broken diamonds. Blood poured between his busted knuckles, sliding down the back of his hand to his wrist. He was pretty sure a couple chunks of glass were embedded in his skin, but he didn’t care.
He staggered backward, kicking aside bits of debris, and ripped off part of his shirt.
He tore the hem of the fine fabric, the loud shred of it echoing in his ears, then clumsily bandaged his hand.
Crimson seeped through the silk as he tied it off in a makeshift knot.
Perhaps a shower would help him feel better.
The new wound on his hand would heal eventually, but as he turned to head toward the granite shower stall, he lost his balance.
The back of his heel caught the clawfoot tub and he toppled backward, throwing his arms out to catch himself.
Were he sober, he might have been able to recover.
But the honeyfire inhibited his reactions, the bathing suite tilted on its axis, and Atlas landed in the tub.
His head smacked the porcelain ledge, sending ricochets of pain down his neck and spine.
Black and violet stars danced before his eyes, and he winced as the throbbing ache pierced his temples.
With one leg dangling over the curving ledge, he gritted his teeth and grappled with the side of the tub to try to find purchase, but his elbow knocked over a bottle of bath soap, spilling the fragrant contents all over his lap.
“Fucking skies,” he mumbled, his bleary gaze struggling to focus on the mess he made while his head continued to pulse and spin.
Heaving out a breath, Atlas tilted his head back and gave up.
“Fuck it.” He closed his eyes, ready for the swift blackout that would soon follow. “I’ll just sleep here.”
Atlas was on a boat drifting out to sea.
The waters were turbulent, rocking him back and forth, even though the skies were clear.
His gut clenched and seized, the honeyfire sloshing around in his stomach like an acidic wave of bad choices.
The vessel continued to sway, tossing him from side to side so bile burned in the back of his throat while his head felt as though someone had bashed it in with the hilt of a sword.
He clenched his jaw and inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of the sea and something else, something vaguely familiar.
Voices sounded from behind him. Perhaps they were going to push him overboard and let him drown.
He deserved no less than to sink to the bottom of the ocean and spend an eternity in a watery grave.
Again the waves surged and he swayed on his feet, gripping the rail.
Admittedly, he wasn’t ready to die just yet.
Why the fuck was he on a boat, anyway?
And who was steering the damn thing?
A swell of ice-cold water fell from the skies and Atlas lurched forward.
He coughed, choked, and hacked his way into a state of consciousness.
His stomach roiled and his head swam with dizziness as he slowly blinked open his eyes.
He was soaked to the bone with soapy bubbles frothing on his pants and one leg flung out over the edge of a tub.
Ah, so not a boat then.
Atlas groaned, sinking down further into the tub.
Hazy light spilled into the bathing suite from the framed window, making it nearly impossible to discern the time of day.
There was a painful twinge in his neck, his head still ached like he’d been smashed with a brick, and his mouth tasted like old parchment soaked in alcohol.