Chapter Fifty-Two
If I go now, I could be back in time for dinner, and Kassandra will not suspect a thing.
This is what I tell myself as I slip the golden moth onto my finger.
Perhaps I can swing by the Mouth first, speak with Carter and Fern.
But the sooner I go to the source, the sooner it’ll be resolved.
Whatever is coming my way, I have leverage: the scars on the king’s back, the screaming voices, the blood bargains and blood oaths sworn to keep family secrets buried.
And whatever remains, in the center of it all.
We may not be on equal footing, but that doesn’t mean I hold no ground.
Taking a breath, I lace to the Pith.
I land on the wooden parquet floors, which rise to greet me. The fireplace to my right is cold and empty. The king’s bed to my left is made, sheets tightly tucked into the corners. The apartments are empty. Did I misinterpret the message?
A floating bottle of sparkling wine appears before me, accompanied by two crystal goblets. A note attached to the bottle instructs me to pour. So I do.
Uncorking the bottle, I grasp it midair, then tip the liquid into a goblet. Before I can reach for the second crystal goblet, it drops to the floor, shattering at my feet. I stare, the bottle in one hand, the filled goblet in the other, shards all around my shoes.
“You always were clumsy.”
I force myself not to jump, lest I step on the glass.
Maxian materializes before me in a loose white shirt and dark pants.
Simple, clean, skin clear—he is the opposite image of a few days ago.
His dark-honey hair falls in waves; his eyes spark with amusement.
He does not look like a halfling, not at all, and suddenly I do not understand what a halfling is supposed to look like besides a tattoo on each wrist.
He extends a hand. I offer the goblet. He shakes his head, smiling.
So I offer him the bottle. Still he shakes his head.
“I want your hand, Avery.”
“Yes, Your Magnificence.”
I start to lower the bottle to the ground.
“Weren’t you ever taught manners?” he says. “Never put an opened bottle on the ground. Someone might knock it over and spill it.”
I watch him. What does he want? My gaze settles among the bottle, the goblet, and his outstretched hand.
Bringing the goblet to my lips, I sip the wine.
It’s sickly sweet, bubbly. Maxian smiles, quirking a brow.
I down the whole goblet, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, the feeling acrid on my teeth.
“Again,” he says.
So I pour a new glass and swallow that one down, too.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I thought you would. It’s the wine from the coronation.”
The bottle and goblet feel heavy in my hands, these strange weights leaving me vulnerable. Already, the two glasses of sparkling wine fizzle in my empty stomach. Perhaps coming here before dinner was a mistake.
“The wine from the coronation?” I ask.
“You had some, did you not? When Death arrived?”
There’s a mischievous glint in his eye.
How could he know that? If I lie, will he perceive it as an affront? As a reason to wrap Benji in debt once more? Or will he find me rolling over and showing my belly to be boring? I go with the safe option: praising his intellect.
“I did not realize you knew,” I answer. “How?”
“Well.” He clasps hands behind his back. “I could smell it on your breath.”
“I see.”
“Shall you have another?”
“Do you want me to?”
He startles, blinking. “I want you to be relaxed. You’re my guest, of course.”
Scanning his face, I look for any signs of Ashent, the drug, the synthetic magic. The House of Reign may attribute his erratic behavior to him taking too much. In swapping the drug with fireplace ash, I fear the opposite: his withdrawal.
“Your thoughts, Avery.”
“I’m trying to discern a second meaning in your words.”
“What use do I have for many meanings?”
To prove you’re clever.
“To detect if I am clever,” I say.
He chuckles. The sound reverberates in the empty apartments.
“Do you enjoy my test?”
“I enjoyed the wine.”
He laughs again. “Then have another.”
But this is fae wine, and two glasses back-to-back have the room swaying.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, circling.
“Nothing, I—”
“Then drink.”
The situation is slipping sideways faster than I can grasp. I fill the goblet up to the top and force it down. Bile surges up my throat, and I swallow that, too. My belly bloats with alcohol and air. I don’t think I could fit another glass into my body if I wanted.
“Again,” he commands.
The goblet slips from my sweaty fingers, smashing at my feet, beads of glass nicking my ankles.
“It was an accident,” I gasp, blood roaring in my ears.
“Again.”
We watch each other.
Tipping the bottle back, I choke down the last of the effervescent liquid, my stomach roiling. I burp, wiping my mouth with my hand.
“Now put the bottle down.”
I crouch, placing the item among the shards. I realize my mistake too late. I lose my balance and fall—
Something yanks me up, hauling me away. A shoe kicks off, and I yelp as the king swings me into his arms.
“You don’t trust me?” he asks.
No, I don’t, I almost say, before shutting my mouth. I close my eyes. This was a mistake. A terrible mistake. How, even after everything, did I think I could manage this? Was it pride, or was it something more dangerous like hope?
“I want to,” I say, the half lie tasting just right.
He gives another laugh, moving away from the ring of broken glass. “I know,” he coos. “I know.”
The room whirls, and I will be sick if it doesn’t stop; I need anchoring, and the only option is to cling to him.
You are already king…Why—
“I am.”
Opening my eyes, I gaze up at his square jaw, those deadly lavender eyes.
“I said that out loud, didn’t I?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “What did you mean by it?”
My fingers trace his full lips. “You enjoy being king?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Then why is it not enough?”
His expression falters, brows knitting. A small voice in the back of my mind screams for me to stop, but my tongue feels loose, my thoughts spinning away.
Why must you be the center of my world? You are already the center of everything else.
My body sinks into a soft mattress. My eyes fly open—I had not known they had closed—and I take in Maxian’s broad shoulders above me, blocking out the light.
Beneath him in his bed, I understand now.
He cannot forget what I did last time I was here, and so he must find a way to paper over it with other memories.
Does it keep him up at night? If I weren’t beneath the royal now, this thought would satisfy me.
No, instead, anxiety ripples my body. This isn’t a seduction for him, not even dominance.
This is revenge. This is him reclaiming the control I stole.
I shudder. Maxian brushes a thumb along my temple, shifting hair from my eyes.
“Are you cold?” he asks, his weight descending across my stomach, but it’s too much. It presses on the churning acid. Sweat breaks along my back, my vision blurring. No. No, I—
“I’m going to be—”
Maxian leaps back as I lurch over the mattress and vomit. He swears. My body pitches forward again, and a strong arm bands around my waist. More vomit and spittle drip from my mouth, my throat and nose burning.
“Fuck,” he grunts, and then he’s snapping his fingers. “Fuck.”
A groan tumbles out of me as the king pulls back my hair. My breath is shaky, eyes welling.
“Don’t worry about the floors,” he says. “Someone else will clean it up; another faerie is on their way.”
The last scrap of my control unravels.
I sob.
Great, heaving gasps, my face heating, twisting, wet with snot and tears and spit. It is not delicate. It is ugly and wretched and unstoppable.
The king swears again, lifting hair off my neck.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay, you’re not in trouble.”
I sob harder.
Maxian gathers me into his arms once more, pressing me against his chest, and we are moving across the apartments.
We enter the echoing ceramic bathing chamber.
As I pull my head back, I catch sight of us in the looking glass: the golden hero holding his maiden.
A faerie shattered only for the sake of his saving.
The king sets me down on a bench, a basin carved from stone to my left, and in front of me an empty inlaid pool, glinting sienna tiles. Lila was right; it is halved by a great jagged wall like the one in the Salon of Stars.
Maxian kneels before me and unties my shoe. I lean against the wall, breathing through the queasiness, as his warm, soft hands roll down my socks and clasp my bare heels.
“I always forget how strong fae wine is, especially for faeries.” He looks up at me. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
It hurts, how beautiful and monstrous he is.
“I wanted to impress you.”
He huffs a laugh.
“Your naivety is endearing,” he says.
Like a child is all I hear, and because I am feeling vicious and bitter, I ask: “Attractive?”
Thick fingers wrap around my ankle. “Perhaps.”
I spit up on my tunic. Maxian reaches for me, hauling me to the basin. I clutch the stone counter and get sick again, my legs giving out. He holds me up as I vomit again and again, until there is only stomach acid, and even that I eject.
Footsteps.
“Your Magnificence, are you ill? I saw the—” The voice stops. Carter stands at the threshold with linens and a small vial. His attention lands on us, me hunched over the basin with the king behind me. “Oh planes. I—Avery? I—”
“It’s all right,” Maxian says. “Too much wine.”
“Let me take her off your hands. I’m so sorry that you had to witness—”
“It’s okay, like I said. Leave the towel and fresh shirt.”
Carter doesn’t move. “I…are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m happy to take care of her tonight.” His grip on my hair tightens, my scalp tingling. “After you clean up the vomit in the bedroom, you’re dismissed for the night.”
The valet’s eyes flare with concern, scrutinizing my face. The plane rumbles around us, unsteady territory. Go, I try to convey. Please just go, you’re making it worse.
Carter blinks and the concern is gone, replaced with something else. He glances to his master. “Thank you, my king. This is truly kind. Please feel free to call for me anytime.”
“Of course.”
Fingernails dig into my hip. I hold back my grimace. Carter gives me one last wide-eyed stare before departing. The tension in the plane eases, like a bumpy path now smooth.
“Can you stand for a moment?” Maxian mutters, and I nod.
He crosses the chamber, gathering the items by the door.
In the meantime, I splash water on my face, rinse out my mouth.
He presses the tonic into my hand, and I uncork the ginger concoction and drink, and my stomach settles.
Maxian grabs a small container to the right of the basin and opens it.
Inside is a mint paste that I rub across my teeth and spit out.
Although my reflection shows a sallow-faced faerie, I feel my strength gathering, head clearing.
I just need to stall while I think of a plan.
Until the king stands behind me, his wide torso pressing into my back, and wraps his arms over my chest. His mouth grazes the tip of my ear.
“What did you think of my note?”
I shiver.
He smiles, interpreting it as something else, and then his mouth is descending, hot and wet, along my neck.
I tense, my mind emptying. A hand wraps around my throat, tilting me to the side so that he has greater access.
It was our position in the boxing ring, when he apologized for Dominik’s bite, the press of his body against mine, his readjustments. Was he hard, even then?
Soumeter.
In the reflection of the looking glass, the bulky male falls on the female’s throat, the crook of her shoulder. He nips at the skin and the female pales like a statue. The male lifts his head, eyes darkening, grip tightening on her neck, a rough mockery of my grasp on Rose’s throat.
“Your thoughts, Avery.”
Soumeter. Still, the female cannot school her expression this time, her body recoiling, every part closing up.
“Avery,” he growls, his other hand cupping my chin, forcing me to look at him. My chin still aches from how he grabbed it in the library, despite the healed skin. Emotions flash across him like the purple and gray and blues of shadows on a mountain face. “Your thoughts on my note?”
“I want it in writing,” I manage, mouth dry.
“If you draw up the contract, I will—” I breathe, a piece of me breaking away like a clod from a riverbank.
I can’t think of an escape. No one is coming to help, even if they wanted to.
The only plan is survival, and then I will reassess.
I can survive this. So I let myself get sucked into the current.
I will let myself drown in it, if it means that Benji can reach solid ground.
“You’ll what?”
He has yet to use his Reign magic on me this evening. But that isn’t the point of soumeter, is it? He is interested not in reflexive obedience, but rather in the slow and deliberate erosion of my will until it resembles his.
“Draw up the contract,” I say. “And I will draw us a bath.”
It seems I will not make it back in time for dinner.