Chapter 10 #2
The corridor narrowed here, flanked by tall windows streaked with twilight.
She turned to face me, her expression unreadable. “I stopped your council from eating you alive.”
“My council has sharper teeth than you think.”
“Then they’ll need to get in line.”
Quandary, who’d left her shoulder to investigate a suit of armor, sneezed. A tiny flame shot out, hitting a sconce on the wall and causing it to flare up. The creature leapt back and tumbled into the top of a decorative vase. Only his tail and back legs remained visible, kicking in the air.
Cyrene moved to rescue him, but I got there first, carefully extracting the creature. He blinked up at me, looking dazed, then shook himself and huffed, as if he wanted to imply it had been intentional.
“Even your companion lacks decorum,” I said, setting him down on her shoulder.
She stroked his spine. “He’s my friend. There’s a difference.”
Quandary nodded, then hiccupped another small flame that formed a perfect heart shape before dissipating.
He looked as surprised by this as we were.
I returned to our conversation. “You’re playing a dangerous game, wife.”
“I’ve always been good at those.”
The admission landed between us like a confession.
I remembered her laughter years ago at the fair, the feel of her hand in mine, the way she’d trusted me when I hadn’t earned it. That memory had kept me alive through the past years. And now she stood in front of me again, the same and entirely different.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” she said.
“No. You shouldn’t have.”
Her gaze flicked up. “You kissed me back.”
“I didn’t—”
She raised a brow. “Don’t lie. You did.”
And it hadn’t been out of politics or pretense. It had been pure, selfish need.
I took a step closer to her, my voice dropping. “You forget yourself.”
“No,” she said softly. “I remember you.”
Before I could respond, I caught one of the younger guards standing at the end of the hall, trying very hard not to listen to our conversation.
“Leave,” I said.
He pivoted and bolted.
Cyrene’s chin tilted. “You can’t banish everyone who hears me talk.”
“Watch me.”
Her lips curved up, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re reckless.”
“You didn’t stop me.”
“Because it would’ve caused a scene.”
She stepped forward. “We were already in a scene.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “You’re infuriating.”
“I’ve been told that’s part of my charm.”
“By whom? Your coven?”
“Bold words from a man whose idea of socializing is glowering from across a ballroom.”
I wanted to laugh. Instead, I exhaled a long, frayed breath. “You’ve made my life extraordinarily complicated.”
“Good. You made mine unbearable six years ago. We’re even.”
“Even? You’ve upended my court, challenged my advisors, and now this spectacle—”
“And you’ve imprisoned me in a loveless marriage in a castle full of people who dislike me. I’d say I’m still owed a few more spectacles.”
“I never said I didn’t—” I stopped myself. “The marriage was necessary.”
“Necessary doesn’t mean it has to be miserable.” Her voice softened. “But apparently that’s your specialty.”
We stared at each other, the silence thick with unspoken things.
She sighed, the fight draining from her shoulders. “Fine. If you’re going to glower at me all evening, I’ll leave and you can glower alone.” Turning, she strode down the hall.
“Cyrene.”
She paused, not turning back.
I didn’t know what I meant to say. Should I ask her to stay or tell her to stop making me feel alive again? Because that was the problem. She was messing up the control I’d worked very hard to establish.
“You’ll attend dinner tonight,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t, the court will think you’ve fled in shame. You want to win them? Smile and act like you planned it.”
Turning, she studied me, trying to read whether I was mocking her, which I wasn’t. “And what will you be doing while I’m smiling?”
“Attempting to look less bewitched.”
Her lips curved upward. “Don’t try too hard. We need them to believe it, remember?”
“I doubt that will be a problem.”
“Was that almost a compliment?” She placed a hand over her heart in mock surprise. “Be careful, Your Majesty. People might think you’re warming to me.”
I just stared at her.
Finally, she nodded. “Fine. I’ll go. But you’re sitting next to me.”
“I always will.”
“This time, try not to look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
And then she was gone, disappearing into the side corridor with a swirl of skirts and the faint scent of citrus.
I pressed my hands to my temples, trying to think past the pounding in my skull. The taste of her lingered. This woman was so bright, maddening, and alive. This was more than magic. It was memory reawakened.
I’d kissed others, some for politics, some for power, a few for pleasure. None of them had left my senses reeling like this. None had burned the darkness from my chest.
And that was the problem.
I’d created an entire kingdom on restraint, painstakingly building control, mastering my hunger and nudging aside my loneliness. It was the only way I could prove I was worthy of ruling at such a young age.
In one heartbeat, she’d torn it all apart.
I wanted to be furious with her.
I wanted to kiss her again.
Instead, I leaned against the wall and shut my eyes, the echo of her laughter still trapped in my chest.
Twilight deepened outside, painting the windows violet and gold. The courtyard below was still glowing from the remnants of her magic. Petals drifted in lazy spirals, and a few of the plants still winked pink and gold.
I stood in my office, watching it fade.
Her magic didn’t belong here. She’d brought color into a world of gray and joy to a kingdom that had forgotten the word. The longer I looked, the more I wanted to hold onto it, though, because it reminded me of what I’d lost.
Who I’d lost.
A soft scratching at my door broke the silence. When I opened it, there was no one there. Until I looked down.
Quandary sat on his haunches, blinking up at me with what appeared to be concern.
“She didn’t send you,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
The creature shook his head and padded into my office. He flew up onto my desk, careful not to disturb the papers, and sat there, watching me.
“I’m not in the mood for company,” I told him.
The drake tilted his head. With deliberate care, he breathed out a tiny flame that shaped itself into a miniature version of Cyrene, spinning in a dance. The flame-figure twirled, laughed silently, then dissolved.
“That’s not helping,” I said.
He made a sound remarkably like a sigh, then curled into a ball, clearly intending to stay.
After a moment, I returned to the window, pretending to ignore him. But his presence, irritatingly enough, made the room feel less empty.
By the time he’d left, and I returned to my chambers, the corridors buzzed with rumors. Servants froze when I passed, conversations dying mid-sentence. I ignored them all.
What I couldn’t ignore was the voice in my head pointing out the contradiction of my anger. I’d wanted the court to believe our marriage was real. Now they were starting to believe, but they thought it was because I was bewitched.
In the game of court politics, this was what victory looked like.
I should be celebrating. Instead, I was sulking because the kiss had felt too real.
For a moment I’d forgotten it was supposed to be an act.
My ancestors would be rolling in their crypts if they could see me now.
Me, the great shadow king, undone by a kiss that had achieved exactly what he wanted.
The hall outside my door was empty except for Lord Broadworthy, who bowed stiffly.
“My king,” he said. “The court awaits clarification on the display.”
“Clarification?” I said. “It was a kiss, not a treaty amendment.”
His mouth twitched. “Yes, but it seems to have sparked speculation.”
“Speculation is the currency of the bored. Let them spend it.”
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d laid out instructions for a charade, then balked when Cyrene executed it flawlessly.
What had I expected? That she would play the docile, adoring wife without actually touching me?
There was no way I could keep her at arm’s length while simultaneously convincing everyone we had a true marriage.
I was a fool, one who’d forgotten the most important rule of lying. Don’t believe your own deception.
Broadworthy hesitated. “Some still believe she’s enchanted you.”
“And you?”
He met my gaze. “If so, I believe you let her.”
I didn’t answer.
He inclined his head and left, striding down the hall, turning the corner, and disappearing from view.
I stepped inside our chambers. When the door shut, I walked around, not finding her inside the suite. Leaning against a wall, I exhaled slowly. The room felt colder without her magic floating in the air.
In the bathing room, I stripped off my coat, staring at the golden dust clinging to the sleeve where she’d grabbed me. It caught the light, as fragile as frost.
I brushed it away, but it didn’t fade.
Her joy magic didn’t obey rules. It clung, lingered, and insisted on being felt.
Just like my wife.
After dressing in formal clothing, wishing they were any color but black, I poured a glass of bloodwine and sank into the chair by the bedroom window. The first sip tasted flat. The flavor of her still lingered on my tongue, ruining me for everything else.
I’d spent years convincing myself I’d forgotten her. That the girl at the fair had been a memory, a dream sweetened by time. The woman who’d walked down the aisle to marry me had bristled with defiance. After all this time, she should’ve felt like a stranger.
Yet she was still sunlight in human form, and I craved the light.
When she kissed me, every lie I’d told myself turned to dust.
I wanted her. Not as a queen. Not as a political convenience.
As her. And that was dangerous because I didn’t get to want things.
I’d built my life on necessity, not desire.
Cravings made kings weak. Desire made fools of men—so my advisors had drilled into me from the moment I took my father’s crown and placed it on my head.
I could still feel her lips on mine. Still taste the spark of her magic where it had seeped into me, bright as blood and sweet as sin.
The absurdity of my position wasn’t lost on me.
I’d spent six years convincing myself I’d done the right thing in leaving her without a word.
But I’d missed her. So when her grandmother reached out, and I’d discovered it was Cyrene, I’d agreed to a political marriage.
And now I was brooding because she’d kissed me too convincingly.
If my father could see me now, he would either laugh or despair. Probably both.
I finished the glass and set it aside.
Tomorrow, I’d deal with the council. I’d find a way to control the narrative. I’d remind Cyrene of boundaries, of decorum, of the difference between survival and scandal.
Tonight, I’d sit here and remember what it felt like to be alive.
And I’d admit, at least to myself, that the taste of her joy magic still burned on my tongue.
Cyrene was utterly addictive.
I wasn’t upset that she’d kissed me.
I was terrified by how much I wanted her to kiss me again.