29. Prince Cole
Chapter 29
Prince Cole
“You call it madness, but I call it love.”
— Don Byas
M adeline and I are sitting at Lorelda’s dining table, the air thick with an oppressive silence that feels almost tangible.
Davina’s words keep echoing in my mind, and it’s like a dark cloud hanging over me, casting a shadow that’s hard to shake off.
Lorelda hasn’t spoken since we arrived, so I break the silence. “We’re happy to be your guests?—”
“You did not mention that you are bringing a guest.” Her cold gaze fixes on Madeline.
“Need I remind you that you wanted to meet her?”
“Can she speak for herself? Or does she consider staring a polite way to greet me?”
The disdain drips from her words, and I can see Madeline swallow hard, her throat bobbing as she shifts uncomfortably under the weight of Lorelda’s scrutiny.
“I’m Madeline,” she says nervously, her fear palpable.
“Stop intimidating her,” I sigh. “She’s here. That’s exactly what you wanted.”
Lorelda shrugs and smiles, and on anyone else, it would be endearing. “Of course,” she says softly, tilting her head. “What a pleasure to meet you, Madeline. Be a doll and stand up for me,” she purrs. “Come here. Let me get a good look at you.”
Madeline hesitates, then stands and walks over to her.
Lorelda narrows her eyes, a calculating expression crossing her face as she begins her assessment.
“I absolutely adore your hair, Madeline. So long and blonde,” she drawls, her voice dripping with feigned sweetness as she reaches out, curling a strand of Madeline’s hair around her finger. She glances at me, her fake smile widening. “Isn’t it lovely? I must say, it’s refreshing to see someone with such natural beauty.”
Madeline stands frozen, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. “Th-thank you?”
“I had no idea you had a soft spot for blondes, Cole,” she continues, feigning innocence, her gaze fixed on me with an edge of challenge.
“I love blondes,” I lie.
“Well,” she responds dryly, “I bet you love her even more for other qualities.”
I don’t respond. This is ridiculous.
Madeline, sensing the hostility, shifts uncomfortably before trying to retreat. Before I can tell her to wait, Lorelda snaps her fingers, and a force of magic slams Madeline against the wall with a jarring thud.
I sigh.
Madeline screams in pain, and Lorelda lets out an exhausted breath, running her tongue across her teeth. “Did anyone mention that sitting down was an option, or are we just ignoring the rules here?”
Madeline curls into herself on the floor, gasping for breath, her eyes wide with fear.
My frustration boils over. “Was that really necessary?”
She tsks. “Enjoy the show instead of complaining. And what about my request? I wish you had brought another woman with you. Preferably a dead one.”
I grit my teeth and clench my fists under the table. “I assume you’re aware that King Nathaniel has a dozen soldiers, and I’d have to go there alone. Not quite a fair fight, is it? And I certainly don’t think Davina is laying on a silver plate where I can just pick her up from.”
“You disappoint me, Cole. All the things I do for you, and this is how you repay my generosity?”
“Generosity?” I repeat, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. “Let’s not forget you’re the one who killed my father. And as if that wasn’t enough, you took my sister captive just to fucking spite me. If it bothers you so much that I won’t blindly follow your orders, then by all means, go ahead and kill me.”
She fixes me with a steely stare, and I can almost feel her anger radiating off her. I know she won’t kill me—I’m the closest thing she has to someone she can trust, though I don’t even understand why. I despise her, and deep down, she knows it.
Lorelda lifts a hand, using her magic to drag Madeline across the floor until she’s lying beside the table.
Madeline’s entire body is trembling, her right temple bleeding.
Lorelda sighs, as if she’s exhausted at the sight. “Stand up,” she orders, smoothing her black dress. “How dare you lay there crying like that,” she hisses, her nose wrinkling in disdain. “Pathetic.”
Madeline struggles to her feet, and I quickly help her sit down.
Lorelda summons someone to bring the food and smiles.
That smile isn’t reassuring.
“Do you like dessert, Madeline?” she asks sweetly.
Madeline looks at me, her eyes searching for the right answer.
I squeeze her hand and turn to Lorelda. “She appreciates whatever you’re offering.”
“I see,” Lorelda says, nodding with feigned approval. “A modest girl. How rare.” She rests her elbows on the table and leans in, her gaze on me. “Tell me, do you love her?”
“I do.”
“Hm.” She purses her lips, scrutinizing me. “Why is it so hard for me to believe you?”
“Because you don’t trust anyone but yourself,” I respond dryly. “That’s why.”
“Your father said the same thing. It is a shame I had to kill him.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood. She speaks as if she killed him out of necessity, but I know it was all for her own twisted amusement.
As I grab my fork, trying to eat despite my lost appetite, I glance at Madeline. She remains still beside me, her gaze fixed on the table as if it holds the answers to her plight.
“Just eat,” I whisper to her. “Then we can leave.”
Lorelda clicks her tongue. “There is one thing that must be done before we can enjoy dinner.”
Grinding my teeth, I look up at her. “What?—”
Before I can finish, my fork is yanked from my hand by magic and thrust into Madeline’s right eye, blood spraying everywhere.
I pull open the door of the palace, my eyes immediately flicking to Davina. Disgust flickers across her face as she realizes I came back alone, and my chest tightens. She stands up to leave, my gaze trailing along her figure, drinking her.
“So,” Rafe says, catching my attention, “looks like Lorelda wasn’t in a good mood, huh?”
“Understatement.”
“I doubt she’s ever going to talk to you again,” he says, nodding toward Davina.
Letting out a frustrated breath, I follow her into the kitchen. I hesitate momentarily, unsure of what to say. The tension in the air is almost suffocating; Davina’s back is turned to me, her hands gripping the edge of the counter as if she’s holding herself together.
I can see the slight tremble in her shoulders, and it sends a pang through my chest.
“Davina,” I say cautiously.
She ignores me, and the knots in my stomach tighten.
You really messed this up.
“I wanted to check on you.”
“Consider me checked.”
For a second, I consider leaving her alone, but instead, I walk over to her. It’s like I’m drawn to her by some unexplainable force, and the thought of keeping my distance is unbearable.
My hands cage her in as I grip the counter, and her body stiffens as my lips brush against her ear. “Alright, tell me how much you hate much.”
Silence.
This is how she chooses to punish me.
“Alright, tell me how much you loathe me.”
“Just stay away from me,” she hisses, spinning around to face me. Her eyes are red, and there’s a mix of anger and hurt that I haven’t seen before. “You don’t get to come back alone and cage me in like that.”
Her lips are trembling, and for a fleeting second, I’m tempted to close the distance, to press my mouth against hers and steal away her anger.
Her eyes flicker, a subtle shift in her gaze. She’s examining my body, her eyes darting over me as if…she’s checking for injuries, as if she’s trying to see if I’m hurt .
It’s so quick I almost miss it, but there’s no mistaking it. Her scrutiny may be brief, but it betrays a hint of concern beneath her anger. A flicker of worry she can’t hide.
I can’t help but grin like a fool. “Were you worried about me?”
Her eyes snap back to mine. “I just wanted to see if you man-aged to survive your own stupidity,” she snaps. “Honestly, I don’t know why I even bother.”
“Admit it,” I say slowly. “You care.”
“Why?” she demands. “Why can’t you just admit when you’re wrong?”
“Because I’m never wrong, but feel free to keep trying to prove otherwise. It’s quite amusing, really.”
You’re a bastard.
“You’re so full of yourself,” she explodes. “You arrogant, cocky asshole.”
I blink in surprise.
God, even her rage is beautiful.
Her tone catches me off guard, and I have to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughing.
I’m quite sure that’s the first time I’ve ever heard her curse.
“Got quite a mouth on you, don’t you? Someone should teach you what to do with it. I could show you a much more fun and productive use for that pretty mouth of yours.”
Her gaze sharpens, eyes narrowing. “You’re drunk.”
I am not, but still, I decide to play along. “I’m sober enough to kill someone, darling, so I suggest you be careful and don’t push your luck.”
She snorts dismissively, as if she knows better than to take me seriously. “If you wanted me dead, I’d be dead.”
“Yes, you would.”
“But I’m not.”
“Yet.”
“Just shut up, or I?—”
“How about you shut up?”
She huffs, folding her arms defiantly. “Make me.”
“Oh, I can make you shut up.” I flash a wicked grin. “But you might moan a little, so don’t tempt me.”
Her eyes widen comically, and she breaks away from me.
The sight of her walking away sends an uneasy chill down my spine. “Look at you,” I call after her. “You’re just begging me to put you in your place.”
She whirls around, a disbelieving and bitter laugh escaping her. “Funny, because I could have you on your knees if I wanted to.”
“Enjoying the thought of me on my knees in front of you again, are you? Admit it, you like fantasizing about?—”
“Spare me your delusions.”
“You’re lucky I need your help. Otherwise, you’d be six feet under the palace right now.”
She stiffens, the sharpness in her eyes dimming for just a moment, revealing a flicker of hurt that she quickly masks.
You’re such a bastard.
I hate myself for the way I’m acting, but it’s easier to be an asshole than to face the fear of her ignoring me completely.
My words are just a desperate attempt to keep her engaged, intended to provoke a reaction.
It’s pathetic, really, but I can’t help myself.
The thought of her shutting me out, never speaking to me again, is far more unsettling than I’m willing to admit, and I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid that. Even if it means playing the villain in my own story. So I keep pushing, masking my fear with false confidence, all the while hoping that if I just get a rise out of her, she’ll keep talking to me.
“Is that a threat?” she asks. Her face is a mask of anger, but I can see the pain she’s trying to conceal. “Because it sounds like desperation to me.”
“Desperation? I’m not the one who’s running away.”
“I hate you,” she spits with disdain. “I despise you. I loathe you. That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?”
I flinch at her words but mask it with a scowl, fully aware I’ve earned them. “And you called me an asshole. Want me to bend you over this counter and show you just how much of an asshole I can be?”
Her face twists in disgust, fists clenched tightly. “What is wrong with you? You’ve already done enough damage.”
“That’s a loaded question. But if arguing with you is this entertaining, I might have to do it more often.”
The look of repulsion on her face should be off-putting, but I’ve already acknowledged that I’ve lost my sanity. And I’m curious about the extent of her hatred.
My hand slides beneath the hem of her dress, my fingertips brushing the back of her thigh. “You know,” I say softly, “it’s quite convenient that you always choose to wear these flimsy little dresses.”
“What,” she breathes out slowly, “are you doing?”
She blinks once, twice, three times.
Her body tenses slightly, but she doesn’t pull away.
Clenching my jaw, I try to steady my own racing thoughts. “If you want me to stop, just say the word.”
In the throbbing silence that follows, I slowly trace a deliberate line upward, reaching her ass. Her breath hitches, and her reluctance to pull away only intensifies my self-disgust.
Why isn’t she shoving me away or spitting in my face?
I want her to tell me to fuck off, to draw a line and remind me that I’ve crossed it. Her voice should be a weapon to cut through the fog of my self-delusion. She should yell at me to leave her alone. I want her to tell me I’m a monster, to confirm the gnawing self-loathing that’s been my constant companion.
I want her to send me away with that look of utter disgust that I know I’ve earned. I want her to reject me, to give voice to the anger I know she must feel. I am begging for her to reject me, to remind me how unworthy I am of her touch.
I know I don’t deserve this—her presence, her body, her time.
The silence stretches, growing heavier with each passing second.
“That’s…” she finally says, her words a hesitant whisper that feels both fragile and heavy, “inappropriate.”
“Then why aren’t you stopping me? Why don’t you tell me to stop?”
“I—” Her voice falters as her fingers curl around the edge of her dress, gripping it as if it’s the only thing holding her steady at this moment.
Despite the guilt tugging at my conscience, I grab her ass and squeeze hard, earning myself a loud gasp. Starting to stroke a lazy, taunting path, I make my way to the edge of her underwear, and her breath grows heavier as her lips part.
“You’re looking a little flushed, darling.”
Her eyes bore into me, but no words escape her lips.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re enjoying this.”
My fingers trail agonizingly slowly over her underwear, drawing a soft moan from her lips, and the urge to find out how it sounds when she’s moaning my name is my personal brand of torture.
As my fingers brush against the fabric, I can feel the heat and dampness beneath, causing a shiver to run through me.
“You might try to convince yourself that you despise me, and honestly, I wish you would, considering what I’m doing. I’d prefer it if you were repulsed by me in this very moment.” I halt the movement of my hand, leaning in close to whisper into her ear, “But your soaked underwear tells a different story.”
She steps back abruptly, as if the realization of what just happened hits her. Her look of arousal quickly turns into fury as she glares at me. “You really do make me sick,” she hisses.
Her words slice through the fog in my mind, piercing the haze of confusion and guilt that has clouded my thoughts.
“Prove it,” I beg. “If you truly hate me so much, then prove it. Make me believe it.”
She scowls as she stares at me. “Why would I need to prove anything? Isn’t it enough that I’ve already told you? What more do you need?”
I focus, channeling my power through the words I speak and weaving my intent into her very thoughts. “Slap me,” I demand, my voice low but commanding, letting my will penetrate her consciousness.
Davina’s eyes narrow in disbelief, but I can feel the subtle shift, the way her body tenses as she’s fighting against the invisible force.
Her hand rises slowly, almost reluctantly, and finally, she delivers a stinging blow to my cheek.Her jaw drops as her hand drops to her side, and the anger in her eyes remains, but now it’s tinged with a trace of bewilderment.
“Very well.”
“You’re out of your goddamn mind,” she spits out.
“Fuck,” I mutter, trying to stifle a nervous laugh. “I really want to kiss you right now.”
She recoils as if I’ve struck her. “ What? Why? — ”
“Because the thought of not kissing you makes me want to die.”
But the truth is, I’m so in awe of her that I wouldn’t be able to make the move even if she gave me the chance. Because I plan to kiss her only if she’s equally desperate to kiss me.
I want her to be as desperate for it as I am.
She laughs, but to my surprise, it’s not a mocking laugh. It’s more of a disbelieving, almost incredulous sound, like she can’t quite process what I’ve said. It’s like this woman can’t wrap her head around the idea that someone might genuinely want to kiss her.
I feel a surge of anger at her reaction. It’s not the laugh itself, but what it implies—that she doesn’t believe someone could feel this way about her.
Does she think so little of herself?
I can’t tell if she undervalues herself or if her reaction comes from never having experienced such attention before, given how isolated she’s been throughout her life.
It’s just like when she couldn’t admit that she looked stunning. The idea that she might doubt her own worth like this and fail to see what I see—that she’s desirable—makes my blood boil.
“Do you think I’m joking? You can’t believe someone might actually want to kiss you?”
Her eyes narrow, and she takes a step closer, her gaze piercing through me. “Madeline is dead because of you,” she spits, the words laced with venom. “And you have the nerve to say you want to kiss me? Now? After that?”
Guilt floods me, cold and suffocating. I try to reach out, but she recoils again, her whole body rejecting me.
“Davina — ”
“You made a mistake! A mistake that cost her life . And now you think you can just— what? Make it all better by wanting to kiss me?”
Her words hit me like another slap to the face.
I’ve been so wrapped up in my own emotions that I didn’t stop to think about how she feels and made things even worse when she was already upset and probably grieving over Madeline.
You really are a bastard.
“And the worst part,” she adds, “is that you don’t even seem to regret what you did.”
“I do regret disappointing you.”
Hell, I never expected someone to unravel me like this, to make me ache for forgiveness I don’t deserve.
“Regret isn’t the same as being sorry! And you fail to understand that this isn’t about me!” she fires back. “Go to hell,” she adds and turns on her heel, stomping away.
Fuck.
I won’t lie and pretend I’m sorry about Madeline because the truth is she’s right—I’m not sorry at all.
I don’t care about other people.
But I do care about her.
“Hate to admit it, but hell sounds pretty appealing if you’re dragging me there. I’d be more than happy to let you pull me along if it meant you’d hold my hand,” I call after her, knowing the damage is done but hoping my pathetic words are enough to make her glance back at me, so I can catch one last glimpse of those eyes rolling in exasperation before she decides to never speak to me again.
She keeps walking, refusing to look back. “Don’t ever do that again.”
My heart beats too fast as I scramble to make sense of her words. There are a million things she could mean.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” I shout after her. “Don’t do what? Say ridiculous things? Touch you? Put someone’s life in danger?”
“Disappoint me.”