18. Prince Charming
Prince Charming
Kier
The thick, cool, slightly bergamot-scented air of my private courtyard fills my lungs with the first bit of true calm I've experienced all day.
Stepping out of my boots and socks, I pad barefoot across the manicured lawn.
Fog swirls around my ankles as I make my way toward the fae-made hot spring tucked neatly in one corner of my heavily warded oasis.
My biceps strain against linen as I unbuckle my belt, leaving it undone to pull the offensively wrinkled shirt over my head before tossing it to the ground.
Rolling my newly freed shoulders and shivering at the caress of cool air against my bare skin, I extricate myself from the last of my clothes and sink carefully into the comforting heat of the small pool.
My head thunks back against a mossy pillow, and I sigh.
What a disgustingly inconvenient mess. I loathe clandestine liaisons, especially when they're being conducted so close to home.
It's been obvious for some time that Saskia is a devious little wench, but she's clearly far more cunning than I gave her credit for if she's been able to manipulate a member of my extended family to get her access to shadow dust. And how has she convinced them?
My lip curls with revulsion at the realization that she's probably whoring herself out—not something that would normally disgust me, but the idea of dipping my wick in a cunt at the same time as one of my family members does, in fact, cross a line for me.
Especially if it's one of the more promiscuous males—it's hard to posit what sorts of diseases those lotharios carry, or how many.
But that can't be the only motivation. Court whores are a dime a dozen, and no cunt feels good enough to risk the punishments that accompany treason. Saskia isn't even one of the better easy lays—far too performative, that one.
My eyes pop open, and I sit up straighter, water sloshing with the sudden movement. Performative, indeed.
She knows I'm put off by her disgustingly faux renditions of climactic displays.
It's one of the main reasons I haven't bothered with her of late—she persists with the act no matter how blunt I am about her not carrying on like the lead in some cheap Shakespearean production.
That duplicitous little witch is playing the long game.
Simpering and fawning over me every chance she gets, but being purposefully distasteful in the bedroom.
No—there's no way it's not connected. She's far too perceptive and clever for it to be a mere coincidence.
My jaw clenches painfully, and I breathe in slowly through my nose.
Fucking females. As has been happening far more often than I'm comfortable with lately, a pair of warm amber eyes flash through my mind, and I growl, forcing the memories away.
I don't have time to be plagued by sentimentality right now. Or ever.
No. What I need, is to orchestrate a spot of torture.
Nothing like doling out punishments for treason to take the mind off the banalities that haunt you.
Right, well, time to sort out who the lucky traitor is, and inform them they've won the gift of my undiverted attention. At least, until I get bored.