Titus gulps. “I can’t do that.” The sound of metal scraping turns my neck to the threat.
Titus moves, sword in hand. Tenderly, he slips it under a vine next to my ankle and jerks up; the vine gives way, the dark brown green of it snapping open to reveal a lime green center.
“Why are you helping me?”
“It’s the right thing to do.”
“And if Galen ordered you to kill me, would you do that too?”
His blade freezes, caught between freeing itself from the greenery or keeping me trapped. “What do you think?”
I roll my lips. “I don’t know,” I admit.You confuse me.
I choke. Titus jostles the knife, slicing through the vine.
My raging heart skips a beat. Words turn to pebbles, weighing down my tongue.
He glides his fingers along my ankle. The rawness of the vine left its mark. Rage paints his face into a mask, a seasoned one would waver to fight.
Instead of removing his hand, he slides his fingers under my ankle and gently rubs a soothing touch to it. The sting from the vine dulls.
What is he doing?
Why am I not stopping it?
“Why do I get the feeling you are full of games and lies?” I mutter.
His touch is a tight line that is severed. He glares at his hand with a traitorous accusation.
He begins to cut my other ankle free. “I could say the same, Queen Selene.” He turns and looks at me. The gleam is back in his eyes.
What secret are you hiding from me? I see it on your tongue, begging to be set free.
Titus’s confidence falters. “I mean no disrespect, but I could say the same about your brother.”
My blood runs cold. What does that mean?
“How dare you act like you knew my brother, beyond clashing blades with him!”
Titus’s next inhale is so deep, it steals all the oxygen in the room. “I didn’t.” He replies. Our eyes connect, slowly, like a moon being pushed down, unwillingly, by the fiery sun. “But Everett knew me.” His brow lifts.
Is he questioning me?
Certainly, he is. That’s why he’s watching as my chest rises and falls. Studying my pupils dilate—as if he can catch me in a lie!
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I spit.
His sigh is full of despair. Disappointment breaks our glare. He continues to carefully cut the vines away from my legs. His hands glide to my hips, removing the last of Galen’s green chains. The thick skin on his knuckles and the calluses on his palms are evident.
I compare his touch to Galen’s.
You should mistrust a king with smooth hands. The ruler should fight beside his soldiers, knowing the cost of their suffering.
I feel… so dirty. I liked Galen’s smooth hands because they felt like velvet against my body.
It was all a lie. Snakes are smooth. They need to slip in, strike, and then slither away.
How many deaths shaped those hands, Titus?
