Chapter 14 The King in the Tree
The fall is not graceful.
There is no dramatic scream. No slow-motion reach for salvation. Just the sudden betrayal of stone slick with algae, my heel skidding sideways, my balance abandoning me like a coward and then
Splash.
Cold water crashes over me with the enthusiasm of an executioner.
It steals the breath from my lungs so violently that my first instinct is not dignity or anger but survival. I gasp, choke, flail, silk instantly turning into a sodden anchor dragging me downward. Pond water floods my mouth, thick and foul, tasting of moss, rot, and centuries of neglect.
I come up sputtering.
"—disgusting—" I cough, spitting green sludge from my mouth as I thrash toward the edge. My skirts cling to my legs like they've decided this is where we die. My hair is plastered to my face, my sleeves heavy enough to be considered weapons.
I had come here to breathe.
To be alone.
To not be seen.
Instead, I am waist-deep in royal humiliation.
I grab at the stone lip of the pond, fingers slipping against algae-slick rock. My muscles scream as I drag myself closer, heels scraping uselessly beneath the surface.
"Of course," I mutter between gasps. "Of course this is how my afternoon goes."
Somewhere far behind me, faint laughter carries through the gardens light, melodic, irritatingly familiar.
I grit my teeth and pull harder, finally managing to haul myself halfway out. Water streams from my skirts in rivulets, pooling beneath me like evidence of a crime scene.
That's when I feel it.
That unmistakable, infuriating sensation of being watched.
I freeze.
Slowly painfully I lift my head.
He is sitting in the tree.
Not standing. Not hiding. Sitting. Like this is intentional. Like this is the best seat in the entire garden.
High on a thick branch of the old willow, one leg bent, the other dangling lazily, back resting against the trunk as if trees were made for him. He's eating an apple bitten cleanly, casually—juice glistening on his fingers as he watches me struggle with open, unashamed interest.
Dark hair. Sharp eyes. A face carved from arrogance and violence in equal measure.
For half a heartbeat, my chest tightens.
Recognition slams into me so hard I almost lose my grip on the stone.
No.
No, no, no.
Not here. Not now. Not like this.
I glare up at him, water dripping from my lashes. "Do people not help damsels in distress where you're from?"
He doesn't even pretend to think about it.
He rolls his eyes.
Actually rolls them.
"Damsel?" he says flatly. "That's generous."
My mouth drops open.
"You're weak," he continues, taking another leisurely bite of his apple. "And frankly? Pathetic."
The audacity is so staggering I almost forget I'm soaked.
Almost.
I push myself upright with as much dignity as a woman covered in pond scum can muster. "I could have your tongue for that."
He chews thoughtfully, gaze flicking briefly to my mouth, then back to my eyes. "You could try."
I straighten fully, water sloshing in my boots. "I am the Queen of this realm."
"And I am unimpressed," he replies, utterly bored. "If you want my tongue, I'll gladly cut it out myself."
He tilts his head, studying me like a curious animal.
"Right after I snap your neck."
The casual delivery sends a chill straight down my spine not fear, not quite, but the unmistakable awareness that this man has absolutely followed through on worse threats before breakfast.
I cross my arms, dripping sleeves squelching unpleasantly. "You sit in my garden, insult my authority, and threaten my life."
He shrugs, apple halfway to his mouth. "And You fell into a pond."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"Queens fall all the time," he continues. "Why would I make a fuss over another useless puppet?"
Something inside me snaps.
I laugh.
It bursts out sharp and incredulous, echoing off the water. The sound startles him just a little and I relish it.
"Oh," I say, wiping pondweed from my chin, "that is rich coming from you."
His chewing slows.
His eyes narrow a fraction.
I know the way his hands once trembled as they held mine through iron bars. I know the way his voice cracked when he begged me to say the words so he could save me. I know the tear that fell onto my knuckles when the guards dragged me away.
I know the man who cried in a dungeon cell for a woman who refused rescue.
This man?
This man would laugh if I bled.
I haul myself fully out of the pond and stand dripping beneath him, skirts ruined, pride dented but intact. I say coolly. "You're trespassing."
He snorts. "Your guards are terrible."
"I'll have them corrected."
"Do," he says lazily. "I enjoy a challenge."
I squint up at him. "And who, exactly, am I speaking to?"
He tosses the apple core aside, watching it arc neatly into the pond with a soft plunk.
"Dante," he says. "King of people who don't fall into ponds."
I stare.
"You climbed a tree in a royal garden."
"You tripped over algae."
"That algae has been there longer than your kingdom," I snap.
"And yet it defeated you."
I grit my teeth. "You're rude for a guest."
"You're damp for a queen."
I open my mouth to retort and stop.
The situation is absurd, humiliating, and potentially lethal. But the sound escapes me anyway, low and genuine and edged with disbelief.
He watches me carefully now not bored, not cruel. Curious.
"Enjoy the tree while you can," I say, smoothing my sodden skirts as best I can. "You're standing on royal property."
He leans back against the trunk. "Enjoy the ground. It seems determined to swallow you."
I turn away before he can see the smile threatening to betray me.
Behind me, I feel his gaze lingers harp, interested now.
He doesn't know that one day he will kneel not from fear, but devotion. He doesn't know he will sacrifice his kingdom if I ask. He doesn't know that I will be the only person who ever sees him bleed and chooses not to exploit it.
Only I know.
And somehow, standing there dripping pond water and moss, being insulted by a king in a tree, I realize .
This is exactly how fate starts its worst jokes.