37. Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Six
Isoria
Lily and Owen gave me privacy once they escorted me back to Archer’s rooms and I told them I was exhausted. That wasn’t a lie—I was utterly drained—but I wasn’t about to go to sleep.
My chest hollowed when I pictured Bren, head downcast, hands manacled with those awful forget-me-not-infused shackles. Most likely, he had entered the capital searching for me, and now he might lose his life for it.
I didn’t let my thoughts linger on how Archer had looked at me, how tenderly he’d brushed the tear from my cheek.
It didn’t matter if he’d shown me kindness in public, when he needed the world to believe he was a lovestruck prince.
The fact was, I could not trust him, no matter what.
He’d killed phoenixes in the past—hated and hunted them—and there was no reason to hope he wouldn’t do the same to Bren, when he could prevent me from losing control and exposing what I was.
I had to make my move tonight. Thankfully, before I had too much time to worry, Archer’s footsteps signaled his return. Behind my closed door, I hesitated, wondering if he’d come to talk with me, but I listened as he passed by.
With shaking hands, I unbound my hair, smoothed the skirts of my dress, counted to thirty, and made my way from my room.
I paused in the pantry to collect a bottle of golden wine and two glasses.
I slipped the vial from my skirt pocket, emptying its contents into one of the glasses before filling both with wine.
Hiding the empty vial in a cabinet no one would check, I gathered my wine glasses and made my way through the rest of Archer’s quarters.
The delicacies I’d consumed at the party earlier curdled in my stomach as I paused in the library.
Onyx was spending time on one of his favorite perches, so I took a moment to kiss the top of his head, breathing in his comforting scent and letting the soft feel of his fur soothe me and steel my courage.
Then I continued toward Archer’s bedroom.
His door was closed. Setting my jaw, I rapped firmly on its surface, determined that I wouldn’t let him detect my fear, not even in the pattern of my knock.
“Enter,” Archer drawled.
I crept inside to a dim interior with the fire burnt to embers and the curtains drawn. Archer, his jacket tossed onto a nearby chair, was already in bed. He clutched a bottle of wine, already half empty.
Suddenly, I wanted to turn and flee. He must have thought I was a servant—he had no reason to expect me to ever request admittance into his rooms.
Instead, I forced myself to walk further inside and be assaulted by the dark, despairing emotions clouding around Archer. I gritted my teeth against their weight.
From his place lounging on his pillow, staring at the ceiling, Archer glanced toward me, raising his eyebrows and smirking.
The expression didn’t reach his eyes. It was all for show, an old habit even for me, when he knew I could sense the truth and wouldn’t fall for the lie that was the mask he wore.
“Missed me already?” His eyes landed on the wineglasses. “Oh, good. I’m almost out.”
I swallowed thickly, hoping any anxiety of mine he detected—which was likely little to none given the intensity of his own emotions—he’d assume was due to nerves.
“Thought you could use a drinking companion.” I settled on the edge of his bed, closer than I wanted to be but not nearly as close as I suspected I’d have to get for this to work.
Archer sat up, shoulders shaking with laughter. His green eyes were alight with victory, studying me like he could see right through me. “You’re still thinking about that kiss.”
My momentary relief that he didn’t suspect my true intentions was swiftly followed by shock. Heat seared my cheeks, giving away the mortifying truth: I was still thinking about our kiss. Both of them.
Archer’s hands on my hips. His lips moving against mine. His smile as he’d kissed me.
I sucked in a breath. All to prove he feels nothing, that it meant nothing.
But there was something confusing in the emotions linking us now, something that wasn’t just triumph but felt a lot like hope.
“Maybe,” I said, deciding however Archer felt about the idea of me seeking him out for another kiss, it would at least please his ego. I carefully handed him the correct wineglass, immediately taking a sip from my own.
Archer took a long pull from his glass, and I had to tamp down on my eager response so he didn’t suspect the flood of hope shared in our bond.
“I want to know what happened to Bren. My brother.”
A drop of golden liquid shivered on Archer’s bottom lip. “He’s alive, in the dungeons, as I requested.” His tongue darted out, licking the drop of wine, his eyes tracking my gaze all the while. “I ensured it was done myself and used my power when I ordered the guards to keep him alive.”
A twinge of remorse struck me. He’d done all that, without me compelling him?
But I needed so much more from the prince, things this potion would secure without a doubt. I couldn’t trust Archer and whatever benevolence had entered his heart for some strange reason tonight.
The moment he’d brushed away my tear flashed through my mind. I shoved it away.
I wanted to press him for how far his plans went, but I didn’t want to rouse his suspicion.
The potion’s instructions had made it clear that Archer needed to consume every drop willingly.
They’d said they’d be more effective if the consumer was full of pleasant feelings and trust when they did so.
Vague enough instructions to make me uncertain if he had to drink the entire potion and for the conditions to be just right for it to work.
Tonight, I needed to act like I was charmed, absolutely smitten after our kiss.
Anything to make Archer feel like he’d won our strange tug-of-war battle earlier and let down his guard enough to trust I wasn’t here to harm or use him.
I scooted closer to him until I could feel the heat of his body. My breath sounded strangled in my own ears, my nerves tangling like snakes in my belly.
Resuming his falsely carefree attitude from before, Archer propped his arms behind his head, and with a jolt, I realized he was shirtless.
It wasn’t as if I couldn’t handle seeing Archer shirtless. But I didn’t like the way my eyes roved over the planes of Archer’s chest before I’d had a second to process and tell myself it was for the sake of my act. Traitors.
Archer took another gulp of his wine. Over halfway gone. “Like what you see? Ready to admit those kisses did something to you?” The victory rolling off him was helping counteract his despair.
My hands shook. “You’re right,” I whispered. “But you feel miserable. I could heal you? Clearly the drink isn’t enough.”
The prince ducked his head, like he could scarcely believe he was making himself vulnerable as he murmured, “Another kiss would help more.”
My nails bit into my palm, and I stared down at my glass, swirling the golden liquid inside.
I took another sip to buy myself time. If I kissed Archer, would I ingest some of the potion too?
“Not sure I’ve drunk enough yet,” I jested, tipping back my wine and taking a long gulp, hoping Archer would follow suit.
He stared at me, his eyes consuming the column of my throat and then my lips as I licked the wine away. Please take another drink.
“Am I really that disgusting to you?” His hurt shredded the hope I’d sensed earlier.
Solea’s flames. I needed him to be hopeful and happy, not sinking into misery. I leaned forward, heart pounding in my throat, and, ever so lightly, brushed my lips against Archer’s. They were warm, soft, and pliable.
This wasn’t the same as an angry kiss or one for show. This felt deliberate and dangerous.
Still shaking, I pulled back, but the prince’s arms snaked around my waist. Dimly, I thought I heard the dull thud of my wine glass dropping from my hand.
The heat of him was everywhere—deliciously comforting and secure.
It was terrifying how safe and right his embrace felt.
How, in the moment, the emotions swirling through me, through our bond, didn’t feel like disgust or mere desire, but something much stronger.
My chest ached with it as he trailed featherlight kisses along my jaw and down my neck.
He tangled his fingers in my hair and breathed me in like he couldn’t get enough, kissed me with such reverence it felt real.
He cradled my face in his hands and kissed my mouth again, slowly and carefully, like he was memorizing me.
My stomach twisted. No. This accursed bond was confusing me, making me mistake the way we experienced one another’s emotions for a true connection.
Archer didn’t care for me. He never would.
Attraction was one thing, and it was not surprising he was willing to kiss me to distract himself from the pain of the despair and sorrow he was often consumed by.
But he would never love me. That was madness.
I pulled away, breathless and frustrated, a bitter taste coating the back of my throat and tears burning my eyes. That, more than anything, made me feel defeated and embarrassed. When had I started to want him to care? Why did this hurt?
Archer’s eyes were dark, his golden hair tousled from where my fingers had brushed through it. His own breathing was ragged. Confusion pinched his brow, and then a flash of what looked like hurt.
My stomach dropped when my gaze landed on the wine glasses we’d both dropped, their contents splashed across his coverlet, staining the red material gold. Had he consumed enough of the potion? What if it didn’t work?
Desperation clawing up my throat, I turned back to Archer, determined to try. The instructions had offered no way of knowing if the potion worked or not—one was simply supposed to command, and if the potion worked, Archer would obey.
I spoke the words with all the confidence and authority I could muster. “You will free Brenton and bring him safely back home with me. Swear it on Solea’s flames.”
The prince studied me in a daze, blinking slowly. “I swear on Solea’s flames to free Brenton and take him safely back home with you.” His tone sounded mechanical.
A moment later, Archer’s eyes sharpened, widening in shock. He shook his head like he was shaking off a spell or haze. “H-how did you do that?”
I pulled back, victory simmering through me so hot it reminded me of my own sparks when preparing to ignite.
Rage rippled through our bond. Before I could rise from the bed, Archer’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my throat.
Gasping, I tried and failed to rear backward.
“Thief.” His eyes burned with accusation and fury. “Did you steal my magic?”
Finally. Something unfurled within me, like a serpent awakening and uncoiling itself, stretching and preparing to strike at its prey.
Something hardened in me, something born of fear and hurt and the need for justice for my kind, something unleashed because of my ache for freedom and home and peace.
Finally, he is angry like I am. Finally, I am the one with power.
“I used a potion.” I drew a deep breath, caught between relief that Archer wasn’t squeezing and terror that he’d curse the consequences to himself in his anger and hurt me. “Release me.”
The magical hold I’d had on Archer was already gone, because he watched me warily, hesitating. Like he thought if he let go, I’d surprise him with another attack.
Then his shoulders drooped, his eyes draining of animosity.
A new look filled them with a different kind of intensity, one more unnerving than his loathing.
It was almost like hurt. Betrayal. His hand dropped from my neck.
“Right. All manipulation and trickery,” he muttered.
The awful sorrow and hopelessness he’d felt earlier assailed me all over again, and I had to physically brace myself against their weight.
Nerves tangled in my stomach. I’d wanted to make him vow not to harm another phoenix shifter ever again, to not reveal the location of my home after our visit, but I’d lost my chance. I was out of potion, and after this, he’d never trust me again.
Archer’s smirk turned cruel as I turned to retreat. “Oh, Feathers. I think you’ve made a mistake.”