5. Killian
Alistair takes out his blue velvet coat, flicks the braid on the shoulders straight, and straightens his collar. There’s nothing to be done about the dirt stains and torn seam at his shoulder, but he looks dashingly prince-like, if a bit worse for wear.
I scrub my forearm across my face in an attempt to remove the bloodstains drying there. It’s not that I care about my appearance. It’s itchy. That’s all. I’m not a fop like Alistair. Dressing up to make his special moment, after risking our necks to get here, the fool.
He mounts the three steps into the clerestory. I follow, some distance behind. He circles the glass coffin in the center. Blood-red roses surround it. After a hundred years, they should be dead and wilted, but they’re fresh, in full bloom.
I don’t like this. Any of it. The magic that animates this place is powerful, and we have no way to counter it. Anything could happen once he opens that coffin. I’ve never been one to disturb the dead.
Yet I cannot deny feeling the keen edge of curiosity press against my better judgment. I want to see the woman whose fabled beauty nearly started a war.
Now that Alistair has his prize within reach, he won’t be dissuaded from having her, no matter what hell he unleashes. I know him. We’re as close as kin—or at least, he is to me. To him, I’m only a servant willing to get my knuckles bloody on his behalf.
I owe him everything. He owes me nothing but this fucking castle and release from my sworn oath.
The girl in her coffin is already changing things between us, and I fucking hate it. I want to hate her for it, which is hardly fair. She isn’t even conscious. None of this is her doing. She simply exists.
At the foot of the glass-topped casket is a plaque. I sweep away the dust to read the inscription.
Here lies the cursed Isanthian Princess, Briar Rose, who shall rest in dreamless sleep until true love awakens her. May she rest forevermore.
Hm. Not sure what to make of that last line. Was Alistair’s ancestor so obsessed that he’d rather she never awakens to live a life without him? Or was it fear of what will happen if she does wake up? Both, most likely.
Latches click.
Guess we’re about to find out.
“She’s even more gorgeous than the legends said.” Alistair’s wondering admiration comes out in an exhalation. I’ve never heard him sound so…awed.
Now I really want to know what she looks like.
The light’s reflection on the case obscures the woman inside and bathes Alistair’s face in unholy blue. He lifts the heavy lid on silent hinges. It tilts outward at a precarious angle and holds.
I edge closer.
I swear I’m indifferent to beautiful women—I’ve had plenty of them, and they’re no better or worse than the plain ones—but my first sight of Briar lands like a fist to my heart. It falters at the sight of her perfect face and the golden hair shining against a satin pillow. Her body is clothed in a simple blue dress that does nothing to conceal her shape.
Her hands are crossed over her tits as if she’s about to squeeze them in an offering, or like a maiden trying to maintain her modesty. My cock thickens at the thought of how they would feel in my palms.
Alistair scoops one arm beneath her neck. The girl’s head lolls.
“A hundred years you have slept, Rose,” he whispers. “Now, awaken with the kiss of true love.”
He bends to press a chaste kiss to her lips. Remarkably restrained, for him.
Nothing happens.
A bolt of smug satisfaction strikes me dead center.
Watching him taste her perfection roils me. I turn away. I can’t witness him defile the woman I suddenly, unexpectedly, desire.
Witch.
They should have burned her instead of locking her away like a precious treasure. No woman can be trusted to command that kind of power over men. We are weak creatures. Beautiful women make us stupid and covetous, and gods above, she is cursed with enough beauty for ten princesses.
Alistair drops her back into the satin-lined coffin, frowning. He takes her shoulders and gives her a shake.
“Wake up, Rose.”
No response.
“Her name is Briar,” I point out. “Rose is her middle name.”
“It doesn’t suit her. She’s soft like a petal.” He strokes the curve of her cheek. “So that’s what I’ll call her. Rose.”
I’m not surprised, exactly, that he’s chosen a name for her before she’s awake to have a say in the matter. Inexplicably irritated, but not surprised. “When did you turn into a damned poet?”
“I am simply voicing an accurate observation, Kill, while trying to solve the puzzle of why she didn’t wake up.” He frowns.
Maybe it’s because you’ve never loved anyone but yourself.
And who needs it, really? Nobody, that’s who. My own mother didn’t love me, and I get by just fine without it.
But if true love is the key to waking up the princess, we need to accept defeat and get out of here, for neither of us are capable of it. If such a thing even exists, which I strongly doubt.
“Don’t tell me we came all this way only to fail now,” I groan. He ignores me, transfixed by his prize, oblivious to my mounting irritation.
“Why not climb in there and give her a real awakening?” I gesture rudely. I don’t mean it. Of all the despicable things I’ve done in my wretched life, I’ve never stooped to that. A sick part of me wants to ruin this moment for him, that’s all.
“I don’t expect you to have many scruples, but defiling an unconscious woman seems beneath even your low standards.”
Shame scorches through me.
I’m fucking jealous. Over a woman. I can barely comprehend it. Now that I recognize it for what it is, I’m determined to do a better job of keeping myself in check.
The next several minutes test my newfound resolve.
Alistair tries again, bending over her casket and kissing her deeply. The sound drives into my ears like an arrow. For a few very long seconds, it’s all I can do to tamp down the urge to rush over, seize Alistair, and throw him off her.
Punch his handsome, regal face into a pulp.
What is wrong with you?a tiny voice of reason pipes up. The impulse doesn’t fade, but the faint sounds of kissing do. Thank the gods.
“Want me to give it a try?”
One taste. That would be enough to satisfy me forever.
Alistair clutches the sleeping woman to his chest, glaring at me.
“Seriously. Whatever you’re doing isn’t working. Let me give it a try and then let’s get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving her, and you’re not touching her.”
I scrub my face.
“Alistair.” I avoid using his title. Mockery won’t get us out of here alive. Appealing to his vanity might get me that taste I suddenly need with unsettling, clawing urgency. “No one will know. We tried, it didn’t work, we?—”
“I told you I’m not leaving her. We’re taking her down with us, asleep or awake.”
A growl of frustration rumbles low in my chest. The worst part is that I agree with him. There’s no way I’m leaving a defenseless woman alone in this awful place.
Alistair shifts. One slim arm falls down between his knees as he drags the sleeping woman half out of the coffin.
“Rose, darling. I need you to awaken.”
He slaps her cheek lightly. Every muscle in my aching body tightens. Don’t. Fucking. Hit. Her.
Alistair growls with frustration and dumps her prone form back into the coffin. He strides away, fisting his tawny hair and kicking a fat candlestick, sending it flying into the center of the hall.
While he’s having a temper fit, I take the opportunity to get a better look at Briar.
A strand of her loose hair brushes the back of my ungloved hand. Soft as silk. Liquid sunlight.
There is no way this woman is meant for anyone but a prince. A king. An emperor.
Not for the likes of me.
“Well? See any signs of wakefulness?”
“No.”
I can barely get the word past dry lips. The way my heart leaps into my throat and pounds there makes me lightheaded. I drop to one knee. She even smells like roses. Not cloying. Sweet.
Sweet Briar.
Mine.
Yeah, right. In my dreams.
Awestruck, I skim the curve of her cheek with the callused pad of my thumb. Then, wonderingly, over her plump lower lip. I may be literate, but I’ve never been good with words, and I can’t summon any to describe the feeling of touching her.
Wake up. I think it, but I don’t say it.
“Hey!”
I yank my hand back guiltily like the time I was caught touching a priceless statue. Hadn’t been at the castle for more than a few hours and I was already on the cusp of getting thrown back out into the streets for being a dirty urchin who dared to soil a work of art.
Alistair pushes me aside. He yanks her into his arms and says, “Princess, I order you in the name of the king to awaken,” before pressing a hard kiss to her lips.
Hot, furious, envy floods my system. In battle, that rush of adrenaline is a godsend. Now, with no outlet, all I can do is steep in the toxic brew.
In the periphery of my vision, the girl’s arm that had dropped bonelessly to dangle above the floor twitches, then rises to his chest in a feeble effort to push him away.
My stomach drops through the floor.
“Who are you?” a fluttery, feminine voice says. “Where am I?”
He did it. Alistair fucking did it. I’ve never hated him until this moment.
Alistair beams. A second later, the blue light winks out, plunging us into darkness.