by H. E. Edgmon
ROYAL PAIN
I wasn’t going to mention any royal babies. But you will have a family of your own someday. One of your own design, who treats you the way a family should.
My gaze shifts to Briar. I already have a family of my own. It might be small, and it might be untraditional, but that doesn’t make it less important.
I know what Emyr’s getting at. He wants me to think I could be happy here. That I could belong here. Put down roots. Find love and connections.
But he doesn’t get it. There is no eating an apple from a poisoned tree without getting sick. The tree here is a kingdom that hates witches and really hates me, a contract I’m bound to by threat of death, and a fiancé who’s made it perfectly clear he’ll use me for his own gain no matter what I want.
Any attempt at winning me over with promises of love and happiness is pure manipulation. He doesn’t care if I’m happy. Not really. I have got to remember that.
i should try to sleep. and you should, too. otherwise, that face might start looking as bad as mine.
ROYAL PAIN
I’m not going to call you beautiful again because you scare me a little.
Good night, firestarter.
good night, your highness.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THAT’S ENOUGH CIS MEN FOR TODAY
The main dining hall, entirely separate from the private dining room of the royal family, is the largest room in Asalin’s palace. It’s sort of narrow but long, stretching out to take up more than half the length of the lower floor. The high ceilings are hand painted, with little depictions of pixies and peryton and other Faery creatures slashed across their surface in shades of gold and silver. The three long tables have benches covered in bright white satin and stuffed to be made utterly plush.
I hate it here. I hate the lack of windows. I hate the fact that there’s only one door in or out, and that everyone in the castle crams inside for meals three times a day. The whole thing makes me feel claustrophobic. And that’s nothing compared to how much I hate every memory I have of this room. The staring. The whispers. Being forced to parade around in front of the fae, Emyr’s pretty little wife-to-be, the future queen no one wanted.
Whatever. I know I’m being a baby about it, so I didn’t bother to tell Briar no when she asked that we go down and eat breakfast with everyone else. Since we arrived, food has been delivered to our room three times a day every day by kitchen staff. I’m not sure who told them to make sure we’re being fed, though I suppose I could wager a guess.
Anyway, that’s how I end up sitting on one of these godawful benches, Briar next to me, Jin and Clarke across from us, a mountain of fae breakfast food stretched out in the middle.
“It was incredible, right up until the minute I was pretty sure I was going to die.” Briar is grinning, relaying to Clarke her experience with flying dragonback. “We should all go together sometime. I think I’ve recovered enough to find it fun again.”
“Oh, Clarke doesn’t do dragon.” Jin chuckles, wrapping an arm around their girlfriend’s shoulders, behind the downy feathers of her white wings. “Darling thing is petrified.”
Clarke’s cheeks turn a soft peach, and she scrunches up her nose at us. “I am not petrified exactly...”
“The dragons can sense fear, and it lights up their predator drive. The first time Auriga met Clarke, I had to convince her not to eat her.”
“Okay! Well!” Clarke throws up her hands, then presses them over her face. “Can we not talk about this?”
Jin grins, tilting their face down to kiss the tip of one of Clarke’s antlers. Then they turn back to look at us. “If you wanted, though, I’d be happy to take the two of you.”
“No thanks,” I mumble.
“I would love that,” Briar says at almost the exact same time, grinning wide enough to split her face.
Purple and yellow energy buzz around each other over our heads.
“Well, okay.” Jin nods. “It’s a date, then.”
I pretend not to notice the way Briar’s cheeks warm, or the fact that she won’t meet my eye.
“Wyatt?”
That deep, rolling voice is so lyrical it sounds like music when it hits me from behind. I still flinch, jerking around to look up at Derek, looming over me.
He’s dressed in all black today, a black suit with a black button-down underneath, black knitted leather dress shoes. It contrasts sharply with his blond hair, slicked back over his skull, and those bright blue eyes that cut to my center.
“What?” Perhaps not the most polite I’ve ever been. Or maybe it is actually, since I’ve never been polite at all.
“Might we have a word in private?”
Clarke huffs. “Derek, what are you doing? What could you possibly need to talk to Wyatt about?”
Derek narrows his eyes at his sister. “A private matter.”
“I’m not sure you should be having private matters with seventeen-year-old boys,” Clarke says in singsong, and I nearly choke on my own tongue.
“I am coming to Wyatt as the head of the Guard. And what I need to discuss with him is a private legal matter.” Derek raises one perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Have I sated your curiosity enough, dear sister?”
“It’s fine.” I stand, black energy sliding against Derek’s blue when I do. The azure fog envelops me. “I’m happy to talk.” Anything to get me out of this damned dining room.
When Briar goes to stand with me, Derek puts one hand on my shoulder and drags my back toward him. My ass nearly connects with his thighs. “Must I explain the definition of private?”
I jerk myself out of his grip, scowling, and reach down to tuck a curl behind her ear. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be back soon.”
Briar doesn’t look convinced, her gapped front teeth chewing at her lower lip, dark eyes focused and hateful on Derek’s face.
Jin reaches over and presses their hand to her elbow. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep you company.”
I can feel Briar staring woefully after us as Derek and I exit, side by side.
He leads me through the winding hallways of the palace, nodding at other fae as we pass, occasionally stopping to exchange a few words with another member of the Guard. It isn’t until several minutes have passed and we’ve gone up a flight of stairs to the second floor that I realize I should maybe be more concerned about where this grown man who hates witches is leading me. I was so eager to get out of the claustrophobic dining hall I didn’t ask enough questions.
“Are you going to take me to the tower and push me off?” I ask, and a passing fae in a cleaner’s uniform shoots us a concerned look.
Derek looks down at me and scowls. “Not today.”
That’s encouraging, I suppose.
Finally, we appear to reach our destination. Derek pauses in front of a door, glancing down either side of the hallway. Upon confirming we are alone, he opens the door, grabs me by the back of the neck, and tosses me into the room like a dish towel.
“Hey!”
Losing my footing, I reach out and grab the first thing I can to steady myself. In this case, it happens to be the footboard of a large, four-poster bed. Another few seconds, and I realize we must be in the bedroom Derek shares with his wife. The bed sits in the center of the room, with an oil painting of the two of them hanging above the headboard. A massive wood desk is on one side, a striking gold vanity on the other. The thick red curtains leading to their private balcony have been thrown open, the table sitting out there covered in a stack of books.
Derek steps in behind me and wraps his arm around my front to grip my chin between his thumb and index finger. He turns my head until I’m looking up at him, our eyes locking. His fangs press against his lower lip when he parts his mouth, his gaze sharp and unyielding. I can smell him again, that scent that manages to be both masculine and elegant.
He shoves my back
suddenly against the foot of his bed, his claws pressing against the underside of my jaw, a promise of pain as of yet unfulfilled. Even as my black energy drapes over me like a shield, his blue finds the cracks like a noxious gas, seeping in to press against my skin. It sends a chill over me, goose bumps rising down my neck, spreading over my arms.
“I thought we had an agreement, Wyatt.”
It takes me a moment to start processing the English language as I blink up at him. When I finally do, all I can manage to say is, “Huh?”
He scowls, dipping his head. Those fangs are entirely too close to my face. Are there any major arteries in the face? Fuck, I don’t know.
“The last time we spoke, you were meant to be getting yourself chased out of Asalin. So far, all you seem to be doing is getting cozy with the prince. And my sister.”
Finally, my head seems to catch up with the rest of my body. I huff, jerking my chin out of his grip. “I’ve been trying. And last time we spoke, I’m pretty sure I told you to back off and stop putting your damn hands on me.”
I go to push around him, to put some space between his body and mine, and his wings shoot out on either side of me, trapping me against the footboard. My own energy tightens around me like some kind of body bag.
“Are you trying, Wyatt? Or are you getting too comfortable here? Perhaps you’re beginning to have regrets about our agreement.” He cocks his head, and something wild burns behind those dazzling eyes. How are his eyes so blue? “Perhaps you’ve been swayed by the prince’s charms.”
“I have not been swayed by anyone.” I bare my teeth at Derek, willing myself to jut out my chin and glare up at him as if I am not very aware that he could do anything to me in this room, anything at all, and I wouldn’t be able to stop him. “I don’t want Emyr. I don’t want the Throne. And I’m working on it.”
“Well, work harder.”
Derek sighs, as if suddenly distraught. Again, he raises a hand to me. Only this time, his touch is almost tender when he presses his palm against my cheek. Almost tender, because he still manages to grab me by the jaw and yank my face closer. His thumb rests at the corner of my mouth, his fingertips curling around the curve of my jaw and pressing into the space where I can feel my pulse pounding. “I only want what’s best for you, Wyatt. I hope you know that.”
I want to disappear. Acid gurgles in my belly and crawls up my throat, threatening to choke me. I can’t answer.
And so he continues, bending down to me until our noses nearly touch. “I don’t want to hurt you. But consider what I might have to do, should I no longer be able to trust you. Should you become a liability.”
The world threatens to short-circuit. Everything goes dark at the edges until it’s just Derek and me and I can’t breathe, or think, or feel anything but cold fear and fire threading its way through my veins like a promise.
I don’t trust myself to speak, but I don’t have much choice. “I get it,” is all I manage. I need to get out of here.
Derek considers me for a moment before nodding and stepping back. Freed from the intimate closeness of his body, my knees practically give out underneath me. I have to grip the bedpost to stop myself from hitting the ground.
“Good,” he says. “Now, should your little friends inquire as to the purpose behind this conversation, you’ll tell them we were discussing the matter of your fine. Which, were you curious, dear Emyr has paid in full.”
Right. He said his family would take care of that. I sort of forgot all about it until this moment.
“Otherwise, do get to work. I would hate to see things around here go from bad to worse.”
I don’t bother asking what he means by that, because I don’t want to stick around long enough for him to answer. Instead, as soon as my legs are steady enough to walk on, I bolt for the door. And I keep bolting until I’ve put as much distance between Derek Pierce’s bedroom and my thundering heart as I possibly can.
* * *
After a while of wandering and trying to ease the frantic twitching in my nervous system, I come to a halt and focus on my surroundings. I know exactly where I’ve ended up. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in this part of the palace, but I wouldn’t be able to forget it. Besides the woods, this is right down the hall from the very room where the best memories of my childhood were formed, where I spent some of the happiest nights of my naive little life.
An idea begins to form. A terrible idea probably. An idea that could certainly cause a lot of trouble.
But isn’t that the point?
Mind made up, I head to my once-familiar destination.
After having seen the cabin in the woods, Emyr’s suite seems...un-Emyr. The giant, imposing bed at the center, covered by a red-and-black silk duvet. The matching desk and dresser. The balcony overlooking the courtyard in front of the castle. It reminds me not at all of the little cottage surrounded by flowers, filled with plants and books and his hammock.
Whatever. I don’t stop to investigate all the nooks and crannies, don’t pause to rifle through his belongings in search of something that actually seems like Emyr, because I’m here on a mission. And what I’m looking for is sitting on the bedside table, as if waiting for me. The magicked laptop.
I pick it up and flip the lid open. If this doesn’t get me thrown out of Asalin, I really don’t know what will.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I’ve just snapped the laptop closed and shoved it back where I found it when the door opens and Emyr walks in.
He freezes. I freeze. The two of us stare at each other.
I am still gay, for anyone wondering. This is emphasized by my reaction to the fact that Emyr is carrying a sword slung over one shoulder, all casual and shit like that’s an everyday sort of occurrence. He’s wearing what looks like a leather breastplate and pauldrons that make him look even more broad than he is, and matching leather pants slung low on his hips.
He’s sweaty. And flushed. And I’m going to die.
“What are you doing?” I demand, because, seriously, what is he doing?
He throws the sword off his shoulder and places the tip on the ground, leaning forward with his palm curled around the hilt. “Excuse me?”
“What are you doing with a sword?”
“Firestarter, you’re the one in my bedroom. What are you doing?”
Oh. Right. “Uh, I was looking for you.”
He raises his eyebrows as if he knows this isn’t true but has no proof. I smile back, because I know he knows this isn’t true but has no proof. And we stare at one another like that for a long moment.
Finally, he huffs and tosses the sword onto his bed, all casual and careless and shit. “I was working out.”
“This is how you work out?”
“Did you think it was easy to maintain my body type?”
“I—” That’s enough cis men for today. I would like to cancel all cis men and go take a nap. “I don’t ever think about your body.”
“Okay.” He does not sound convinced.
What if I threw myself out the window?
“Why swords?” I ask, turning away from him to wrap my hand around the handle. I try to pick it up and swing it around all laid-back and sexy, but I can’t even lift it more than a few inches off the bed. The thing has to weigh a metric fuckton.
“Why not swords?” He moves to his wardrobe in one corner and pops it open, then reaches down and unstraps himself from his top.
I am pointedly looking at anything else. “Maybe because it’s not the 1500s anymore? They sell weightlifting sets at Walmart, you know.”
He laughs. Laughs! All melodic and happy, totally at ease. I’m gonna kill him.
“Yes, well, my family’s been collecting their weapons since the 1500s. My father’s passed down blades to me since I was big enough to carry them. Healing won’t do me any good in a fight, after a
ll. I’ve got to train for combat.”
A memory threatens to drag me down. It’s Emyr and me, and we’re standing in the armory, where he keeps the weapons his dad has given him. I’m trailing my fingers against a spike on the end of a very old club, and Emyr is explaining its history to me. I’m not really listening, I just like the sound of his voice.
I grit my teeth and force myself back to the present.
“Right, in case you should ever need to run into battle against the United States military.” I roll my eyes. And then, thinking aloud, add, “I want a sword.”
“You’re still not big enough to carry most of them.”
Oh, I’m definitely gonna kill him. I turn around to glower in his direction and discover that he’s stripping out of his pants now. I look back down at the blade. “I don’t remember you doing all this training when we were kids.” Of course, I try not to remember anything at all.
“I was more interested in other things back then.”
Another part of Emyr’s new persona I don’t recognize. Though I guess I don’t hate this part as much as I hate some of his other princely attributes.
Something thunks onto the bed, and I look over to see Emyr has produced a dagger from somewhere in his wardrobe and tossed it to me.
There is a part of me that is deeply offended by the fact that I’ve been offered the children’s version of a sword, but another part of me just wants to play with it. I pick it up by the handle, feeling the surprisingly heavy weight of it in my hand, and twirl it around experimentally.
Emyr chuckles. When he steps back into my line of sight, he’s changed into a pair of white lace shorts and a tan shirt that looks like something a pirate would wear, all billowy and hanging off his shoulders.
I’m not even going to address this look.
“This does not seem nearly as threatening as that one.” I hold up the dagger in his face and jerk my chin toward the sword on the bed.
Emyr shrugs, stepping in closer until he’s nearly pressing himself against the tip of my knife. “The size of the blade isn’t nearly as important as knowing what you’re doing with it.”