6. Prince Cole
Chapter 6
Prince Cole
“Women are meant to be loved,
not to be understood.”
— Oscar Wilde
I ’m not exactly thrilled about this situation, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
I would be a liar if I said I do this for her sake. It takes skill and precision to weave magic with your words and guide someone into submission. It’s a give-and-take, so I let her think she’s in control now and then.
“This tastes good,” she singsongs, setting down her empty whiskey glass.
Well, it’s certainly doing its job.
She’s drunk.
“Good?” I repeat, noting the effort she’s putting into hiding her grimace.
“Oh, it’s amazing,” she says, trying to sound enthusiastic, but her eyes betray her. They’re glassy and unfocused, darting around the room as if searching for an escape route.
“Amazing,” I echo dryly. “Sure.”
She lets out a long, exasperated sigh. “Do you always respond by repeating what someone says or asking another question?”
I shrug, leaning back in my chair, the creaky wood groaning under the shift of my weight.
“Fine,” she mutters. “It tastes awful.”
“Noted.” I stand up to take her glass. “Alright, how about we call it a night?”
“Nooo,” she singsongs, hugging the glass to her chest. “I’m not drunk yet.”
“Oh, trust me, you are.”
Her eyes roll, gleaming with stubbornness. “I’m just warming up,” she insists, though her words are beginning to slur.
“You’ve had enough for tonight.” This situation is so ridiculous I have to bite back the irritation in my tone before I add, “Come on, don’t be stubborn, let me walk you back to your room so you can get some sleep.”
I force a soft smile, ignoring how unnatural it feels.
Her eyes widen, her mouth falling open in something like disbelief. She suddenly snickers, covering her mouth and shaking her head to stifle the noise. “You have dimples,” she exclaims. “Dimples!”
Hell no.
“Yes, I have dimples. Thanks for stating the obvious.”
“There you go again.”
“There I go again?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“What am I doing again?”
“Agaaain.” She draws out the word and chuckles, throwing her head back.
Realization slams into me. “Repeating everything or asking a question in return?”
Her arm shoots up, the empty glass twirling in the air. “Exactly.”
Agreeing to let her have a drink wasn’t one of my smartest ideas. I need her to be clear-headed and focused. Tomorrow, she’ll probably resent me and blame me for the hangover.
“Let’s just?—”
“Did you know there’s a wine that can make your imagination feel real, as if it’s unfolding right before your eyes?”
I’ve heard of it, but I pretend I haven’t. “Fascinating.”
“It’s infused with an herb known as Dreamleaf. I’ve always wanted to try it, just to see something other than castle walls for once. People say it somehow makes you feel like you’re in the middle of the story you’re imagining. When you drink it, it’s supposed to make you experience everything in vivid detail, almost like you’re living in a different reality. It’s as if the boundary between reality and imagination blurs.”
“Very intriguing, darling. I had no idea.”
“I hate this.”
“What?”
“Lying.” There’s despair and bitterness in her tone. “People are lying all the time.”
So she knows I just lied to her. Interesting.
“Well, the thing about Dreamleaf is…it’s a bit of a myth. People like the idea of it more than the actual experience. They say the real magic is in believing it works. And I’m afraid the herb doesn’t grow anymore, not with the decay affecting the lands.”
She lets out a loud sigh, her shoulders drooping slightly. “So, it’s just another story, then? I wanted to believe there was something magical out there, but I guess it’s just another lie, isn’t it?”
“You should get some sleep.” I reach for her glass, but she grips it tighter, her knuckles turning white. I’m running out of patience. “Go upstairs.”
“Sit down.”
I stifle a sigh and sit, running a hand over my face.
Little brat, isn’t she?
“I have one question,” she says, desperation in her voice, “and I’m begging you not to lie to me.”
I take a deep breath, trying to keep my irritation in check. “Alright, what’s your question?”
“How is it that the curse doesn’t affect me in this palace?”
“This palace is immune to Lorelda’s powers—magic, abilities, curses. Whatever you call it.”
“I figured as much, but how?”
“A spell was placed on it to protect those inside from curses or unwanted entry.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” I reply. “Just like your father’s castle, which Lorelda can’t enter. Didn’t he mention that to you?”
She shakes her head. “No, he only mentioned it’s safe.” She fiddles with the hem of my shirt she’s wearing and sighs. “Like I said, people are lying all the time.”
“Holding back information and lying are two different things, darling.”
She avoids my gaze and stares at the ceiling, despair written all over her face. I have a feeling she isn’t going to leave if I don’t placate her.
She sighs heavily. “I’m a mess.”
“You couldn’t be a mess if you tried,” I say and mean it. I’ve seen much worse.
“Mhm.”
“Wallowing in self-pity, are we?”
She scoffs and rolls her eyes, pushing herself up with a wobbly effort. Her balance falters, and she sways dangerously.
I catch her just in time, wrapping an arm around her waist to steady her. “Careful there.”
She mumbles something unintelligible, and I realize she’s even more drunk than I thought.
“Don’t touch me,” she slurs and tries to push me away.
Ignoring her protests, I lift her into my arms and carry her toward her room.
“I can... I can manage?—”
I huff out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re in no condition to get to your room by yourself. Let me help you, Davina.”
Her head lolls against my shoulder, and through half-closed eyes, she mutters, “My name is Darling.”
“My mistake, Darling.”