Chapter 12 #2
I knew he missed the freedom of being able to create, of owning his own shop. But, like the rest of us, his choices were no longer his own. And now, with Jaxon having murdered Spencer—good fucking riddance—Bubba was sure to be even busier than usual here.
“That is tempting,” I replied with a grin, meeting his conspiratorial glance before turning back to Cynthia, who was shoveling cheese cubes into her mouth without shame.
My chest tightened, and I took another long sip from my glass. She wasn’t going to like what I had to say, but I was doing it for her own good.
“She knows, Cynthia.”
Cynthia stilled. Her warm brown gaze cut to mine, cheeks still full as she slowly chewed.
She looked down into her goblet, face flushing as she swallowed the bulk of cheese in her cheeks, almost choking.
“I know,” she rasped, coughing to clear her throat.
Cynthia’s gaze cut to her glass, focusing instead on the dark swirl of liquid in her cup.
She spun it once, then shot me an exaggerated look.
“Wearing your dead mother's face and making me be your only friend was kind of a dead giveaway.”
Bubba looked between us, his brows creasing in confusion. “What are you two going on about?”
We ignored him.
I narrowed my gaze. “That’s why you need to leave.”
Cynthia dropped her glass with a curse, scrambling for a rag. She snapped her head up at me. “Leave?”
“Yes.”
“No,” she said immediately. “I’m not leaving you. Not now.”
“You are.” My voice cut sharply. “I’ll have Freya assign you elsewhere. Quietly. She won’t question it—”
“No!”
“—and she won’t suspect I was involved.”
“No,” Cynthia snapped more harshly and I slammed my hands against the table and rose.
“Yes, Cynthia, you are.”
Cynthia was about to argue, rising from her seat, her finger pointing threateningly toward me, when the door slammed open.
We spun in its direction, all of us reaching for our weapons.
The king stormed in, his heavy boots slapping against the floor.
My father's face was cold and twisted with an angry scowl.
His thick red scar pulsed on the side of his neck, his jaw clenching.
I forgot how brutish he looked without his human glamor.
The full force of his presence filled the room and charged the air around us.
Cynthia and Bubba leapt to attention, straightening the moment they saw him.
I, however, sat back in my seat. Turning my back to him, I reached for some more cheese and tossed a few into my mouth, deliberately looking bored.
I could feel his glare on my back, and I silently placed a shield around me and my friends in anticipation.
“Do you care to tell me what the fuck happened today?” he barked, and Cynthia and Bubba exchanged a look before taking a few steps back, clearing the space for his fury to focus solely on me.
“Is Morgana keeping secrets from you now?”
I glanced over my shoulder at him and watched as his blue eyes flared. Whips of shadow shot toward me, but they bounced off my shield, only making him more furious.
Smirking at him, I lowered it and sighed, facing him fully as I straddled the bench.
He knew I was more powerful than he was. And he hated it, but he had a soft spot for me… or at least I thought, and well, he was my only living blood, so I guess I didn’t hate him.
“You dare speak to your king like that?” he spat, and I rolled my eyes. He only dragged out his title when he was truly pissed.
“I did nothing other than clean up after Lana,” I said with an exasperated sigh. “Again.”
Gormick’s eyes narrowed, and a fresh surge of shadows erupted, slamming into me and knocking me from my seat. My ass crashed onto the stone floor, and I glared up at him getting to my feet.
“She’s restless,” I snarled. “Maybe if you gave her an actual purpose, she wouldn’t run around trying to get your attention.” The words snapped from my tongue like a whip, and his eyes widened slightly.
“Get out.” Gormick’s voice hissed through the air, and Cynthia and Bubba took their cue, quickly slipping from the room. I glowered at him, refusing to back down.
Once the door closed behind them, my father closed his eyes and rubbed his hands over his face. He stood there in silence, his gaze trained on the floor, before he looked up at me again, a look of weary resignation in his eyes.
“What was she thinking?” he demanded, his voice softer than before.
My shoulders relaxed slightly, and I let out a sharp breath.
“I never know what she is thinking.”
He took a long inhale and growled, stomping toward the table. He reached over and poured himself a glass of wine, slipping into the chair Cynthia had been sitting in across from me.
Reclaiming my seat, I stared at him wearily as he continued to glare at the floor.
“She is reckless,” he spat, and my brows rose as I quickly responded.
“I wonder where she gets that from,” I chided sarcastically.
His head lifted, gaze meeting mine as his lips twitched upward. “She could have been killed. Could have ruined our plans.”
I snorted. “Jaxon was more likely to be killed than her.”
My father looked at me in confusion, and I shook my head again.
“You underestimate her.”
Lifting his glass to his lips, he scoffed. “I assure you I don’t.”
He did.
“Whatever you say, Your Majesty.”
Rolling my eyes yet again, I chucked a few more pieces of cheese into my mouth, swallowing them down with a sip of my wine.
My father lowered his glass and glared at me over the rim. We hadn’t been alone together, not like this since before my memories were taken. Before this plan was set into motion. He seemed to realize this at the same time and started to shift uncomfortably in his chair.
We stared at each other for a long moment, and then he whispered. “What she did with your mother’s face…” he shook his head. “That was cruel, even for her.”
I flinched, my mother’s face flashing through my mind, but I wasn’t supposed to know about that. He eyed me, his gaze daring me to suggest that I didn’t know what he was talking about. I rolled my shoulders.
My father didn’t do compassion or affection. The most he ever showed me was the occasional pat on the shoulder. Other than the rare softening of his eyes when he looked at me, he never spoke of things like this… ever.
Unease crept through me at the knowledge that he was aware I knew what my mother's face looked like. Did this mean my suspicions were right? That Morgana also knew? Was this his way of warning me? My chest tightened, and it only solidified my decision to take Cynthia away tomorrow morning.
I nodded awkwardly, looking down into my glass and downing the contents.
I refilled it, awkwardly offering to do so with my father's.
He extended his hand, and I poured, his eyes never leaving my face.
I placed the carafe back down onto the table, and suddenly his chair was screeching, and he was on his feet.
His lips were pinched, and he seemed to be deep in thought.
He tore his gaze from mine as he grabbed the pitcher and, without another word, left.