Her face flashes white right in front of me, and I lash out without hesitation. The sting of my palm against her face is a snapping sound.
I flinch harder than she does from the realization of what I’ve done.
I slapped the Night Witch…
Fuck.
Her pencil thin eyebrows lift high, and she blinks away whatever she feels from the hard sting of my skin against hers.
“I-I’m sorry, Creatchin,” I say with my shoulders held tight and my words tasting far more formal than I’ve ever tried to be in my entire life.
“Don’t be.” A hint of a smile pulls at her black lips. “Don’t ever be sorry, Cersia. Don’t drown in your emotions of uncertainty. Uncertainty solves nothing! Actions do.” Her thin hands fold one over the other, and I notice how slender her frame is and how beautiful the glittering black lace is that covers her in a wafting floor length gown.
In a way, she’s beautiful. And tragic. That tragic beauty is a haunting image to stare dead in the face. Is that what I’ll become as well as the years pass by: a tragic beauty?
“So.” She seats herself at the center of the velvet settee, long legs crossing in a fluid motion that sways her gown. “What’s your plan, Cersia?”
I don’t reply but simply let that question grow in my mind until it fills every little space of my thoughts.
“Myplan…” Images of how easily I could gain the Prince’s trust spark one after the other behind my eyes. “It isn’t my plan.” I answer instead.
Because it’s not. This isn’t my war. It’s theirs, and I’m here to help.
I want to help.
“You know as well as I do, you’re the heart of this little plot they’ve created. Tell me what the heart wants.” Long black hair cascades around her sharp features as she looks at me like an alluring nightmare.
“I want to be useful. I want purpose—”
“Lies!” She snaps the word out in a rattling tone, but her features remain stony and poised. “Everyone wants something. Even if they don’t know it yet.”
It feels like an accusation, but what she’s accusing doesn’t immediately settle in, it slams in. And it occurs to me so suddenly that my brows rise high. “You think I want the crown of hell?”
Thin eyebrows lift on her pale face in a sort of questioningdon’t youappearance.
“I don’t want to be queen of this realm that I know very little about.” And what I do know, it isn’t looking fucking good here.
Goddess no. I don’t want this responsibility.
“Then think about who should have the crown.” She waits patiently, but it’s like she’s leading me around to answer the questions she knows all the answers to.
With heavy confusion clouding my thoughts, I actually take a moment to consider what I do know about the realm of hell…
The Prince is a deadly asshole… The people live in tattered clothes and could be better taken care of… The dynamics of the guards—the High Hell—it’s a nice set up, but the proud warriors abuse one another all because the Prince is obviously threatened by his brother—shit. His brother.
“Roman,” I whisper like a treasonous sin.
Her eyes widen with a glinting knowing look.
She brought me here because Roman should own the crown. I can help him do that. But the three of them are constantly watching their backs.
As they should.
One wrong move, and they could all be murdered for their crimes against Prince Ravar.
Unless someone else does their dirty work for them.
It all clatters into place in my messy thoughts.
