“My disdain?”
“It’s dangerous. It’s the one emotion Maxian cannot handle: when a faerie looks at him with disgust.” Shaking her head, she says: “You cannot slip once, not even for a second.”
“I won’t.” Taking a few deep breaths, I rein in my genius and emotions. “How are my eyes?”
“Normal again. Brown.”
So there is a connection between all three—my genius, my emotions, my eyes. I’d rather the king not ask questions for which I have no answers, even if I want to inquire after his features. I remember during our clash feeling the skin on his back, ridged and knotted. How the king had turned into someone else afterward.Never do that again.I can’t fight the intuition that there is a secret there to uncover. And perhaps learning whoever is in his bed can be useful to Kassandra.
Most of all, the king made me feel powerless. And now it is my turn to do the same.
—
Lila brings meto the door in the servants’ hall that leads to the king’s chamber.
“Please don’t do this,” she begs.
“How many times have you done it?”
She doesn’t answer.
“I can handle it once,” I say. “Now, get back to your room—you’re ill and need rest.”
Lila gives me one last look, squeezes my hand, and disappears into the hall. I do as she instructed. I bite my lip, bringing color to the skin, grip the knob, and speak: “Solil.”
The normally sealed door glides open, revealing a glowing chamber and warm parquet floors. To my right blazes a veined marble fireplace carved with leaves, berries, and a rising eagle in the mantel’s center, clutching a branch and whip. A sultry glow comes from above, and I expect the night sky again, only to find hundreds of floating candles, their collective radiance like that of the sun itself. Yet there’s no faerie around to maintain them—only a fae.
There’s a huff to my left.
As I pivot, I take in the enormous white-and-gold tufted bed, stories-tall drapes crowning the headboard. A tray of sparkling wine and two glasses rest on a side table.
Sprawled across the bed is a dusty-rose fae with pert features, magenta curls tumbling over one shoulder. Though she wears a thin shift, her curves press against the white fabric. When I meet her glittering black eyes, she sighs, rolling over.
“Max,” she whines. “I wanted the pretty one.”
A deep, soft voice slides along the plane: “What, you don’t find Lila—”
The king’s head rises from behind the female’s shoulder, then stops. His cheeks are flushed, hair plastered to one side, lavender tunic askew, cock thick against his thigh. His eyes flash in shock, brows pinching, and then he smooths his expression into one of cool indifference.
“Avery,” he says.
“Your Magnificence.”
His eyes flick to the fae in his arms, then to me. I give nothing away, schooling my expression, and wait for him to speak.
“I sent for Lila,” he says eventually.
“She’s ill.”
The female fae sighs again. “I think I’ll leave.”
“Come on, now.” The king wraps an arm around her back, drawing her closer. “We can still have fun.”
I wonder whether the tunic will come off. Perhaps he always hides whatever is on his back.
A giggle. “Yeah?”
“Yes, my love.”
