61
Lyrik
Someday, I would go the fuck to hell.
When I did, I would take Summer with me.
As the carriage rocked like a drunken sailor over uneven forest terrain, I kept the mantra in my enterprising head. Not now, but eventually the king would eat shit and die. My brews would make sure of it.
Winter would help. No other kingdom could supply me better.
Slouching on the velvet bench, I propped my boot heels onto the opposite seat.
Somewhere behind my swanky ride, Jeryn and Flare occupied their own carriage.
Likely, they’d drawn the window curtains by now and started on their third round of fucking.
I didn’t catch much about the pair, but I knew hot and bothered looks when I saw them.
Those two had been keyed up to bang long before we set out this morning.
Probably a bad call to use their given names as if we were allies, but whatever. Although I should give a fuck about hierarchy, I really didn’t.
That aside, the Winter King and his fiery mate seemed genuine. They didn’t mince words. I respected that.
Anyway, Jeryn’s arctic stare and Flare’s burning gaze suggested they hadn’t invited me strictly for revolutionary kicks. They suspected more to my story, so I’d have to be careful around them.
Resting my scalp against the paneled interior, I focused on the Season ahead. The place I came from—partially—but had never seen. If visions of enough toxic warfare to reduce King Rhys to antimatter could get me through the first three miles, I might have a chance of making it another three.
Terrible odds, otherwise. Better to blow off raging mental energy than count every turn of the wheels, every inch that separated me from the enclave.
From him .
I left without saying goodbye. He wouldn’t forget that. But then, being hated was easier than all the shit that came with being liked, wanted, and missed.
The stab wound in my side throbbed. Good. Pain was good. It reminded me why I’d thrown myself into death’s path and who I did it for.
Green eyes. Gorgeous smile.
Desperate, I yanked a cigarette from my dusty pocket. After jamming the thing into my mouth, I retrieved a slender vessel that produced a controlled flame when uncorked.
An orange glow filled the cramped space, illuminating the dirt caking my fingernails.
As smoke charred my lungs, I imagined those organs turning as black as my morals.
Leaning back, I sank my teeth into the reed and packed my lungs with more fumes than a chimney sweep, sucking like a glutton for punishment.
Fuck knew I hadn’t backed off from the Royal Son over the past month, but what could I say?
Nicu of Autumn might be standout stunning, with a peaches-and-cream complexion I’d like to snack on.
Even better, he wasn’t timid. That songbird’s tongue could put a serpent in its place, delivering the sort of verbal lashings I never knew I needed outside of a brothel.
And because I wasn’t the sort to keep my trap shut, I seized that opportunity like a stupid motherfucker. Because why not make another self-destructive mistake?
Never touched him. Not even close.
But I did have a fun time looking. And baiting. Pushing Nicu’s buttons guaranteed he’d push back. Hard.
Turned out, defiance was a sexy look on him.
More than once, Nicu’s wise ass comebacks had given my cock an energy boost, my balls overheating like a pair of powder kegs.
I’d fisted myself to that vision so often, it’s a marvel my dick hadn’t ended up in a cast. To say nothing of what it did to me whenever those faeish eyes gleamed with curiosity, shining like a reward for my rare civil behavior.
The look of a goddamn angel.
But angels never chose demons. And they didn’t bring them home to meet the parents.
Hell, if the Court Jester of Autumn knew the pornographic thoughts renting space in my head every time his precious son stood within bondage distance, I’d find myself at the top of the man’s hit list. Flattering, but not exactly tempting.
Nicu had become a dangerous exception. By extension, his family too. From the looks of them, every member of that clan would provide fatal backup if the wrong bastard came knocking.
Bastard being a choice word.
Must be nice, though. Having a family, people who cared.
Anyway, black sheep might be fine to fuck.
And while I’d jump at the chance to become Nicu’s temporary side piece, he didn’t bend over like that.
The songbird knew his worth. It didn’t take an anti-psychic like Aire to grasp Nicu’s type, which didn’t include felons who blew shit up for a living.
Autumn’s virginal sweetheart deserved more than to shag a hot mess.
Much less one that had been spawned by a monster.
The cigarette flaked into ash. While Aire and Aspen were busy getting the sexual tension out of their systems, Nicu got me to admit things I shouldn’t have.
But he never found out my last secret. That would have made him a liability.
“You’ll definitely wear it better.”
I had delivered plenty of enticing lines to men. But that one, I’d meant.
He would wear a crown someday. He’d look hotter and smarter doing it than me.
All in all, I’d only expose my worst skeletons on my own terms. Once I had bloodline proof and enough chemical arsenal to detonate a king.
Shadows crept into the carriage, dark and chilling like the alpine fortress where I headed. Only one wanker knew the truth, knew where I came from, and knew how the fuck it happened.
King of Summer.
Murderer. Abuser.
Father.
Rhys wasn’t supposed to know I was alive. Despite my low profile, the cocksucker had been watching me. This whole time, he monitored his illegitimate spawn while I mixed brews as if I’d been conceived in Winter.
Technically, I had been. By one flesh-and-blood half of the equation.
The other half wanted me dead. Given how long Daddy Dearest must have been keeping tabs on my criminal activity, I was surprised it took him this long to try. Though, I had a hunch.
The treehouse battle. He’d paced himself, aiming to kill multiple rebellious birds with one big-ass stone. That would have spared him my existence, had the plan actually worked.
Either way, Autumn wasn’t safe anymore. Not for Nicu. Not if I stayed. He’d be a vulnerability target, and I’d be a sitting duck asking for a knife through the heart.
“But you love him!”
The gash wound stung deeper.
Love him? Fuck, no.
Heinous bastards of my caliber were incapable of earning or reciprocating that emotion.
Nicu should see the world kneel at his feet.
And I deserved a treasonous execution, preferably after I served my father’s rotting carcass to The Dark Seasons on a platter.
For the former to happen, the latter had to come first.
No bloodless, happily-ever-after alternative existed. That was the stuff of pipe dreams.
Because not every angelic songbird was immortal.
And not every devilish prince was redeemable.