Suddenly, something vibrates in the air, stinging my nose.
Castor scowls as his grip on me solidifies. “Well, if it isn’t the glorious moth prince… I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I’ve already used up all mygood behaviorwhere it concerns not killing someone today.”
It strikes me that Castor has possibly said something deeply concerning, but the tickle in the air is far more unbearable so it takes precedence. Rubbing my nose, I wave my hand to disrupt whatever’s gotten near, and—blessedly—the sensation shatters, falling like glass to the ground.
Cael’s eyes widen as his body goes limp.
A woman with short dark hair and large dark wings tumbles in behind the good moth prince, and I have a feeling she mustbe his wife, Alana, before she grabs his wrist. “Cael, please. Don’t get carried aw—”
“How…” Cael says, staring directly at me. His eyes harden. “Whatare you?”
Jumping, Castor settles himself on the balcony railing and lets a positively seductive—or perhaps chilling—chuckle free. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Cael lunges. “Castor—”
We fall.
Unceremoniously.
Castor merely steps back, and the breeze flies past us, whipping my hair. I bury my face against Castor’s chest, hear his, “Shh, everything is okay, my feather,” amid the wind. His lips graze me, teasing memories of what seemed so short lived just moments ago. Graceful as a swan, he touches down in the grass and turns on his heel. Flower petals underfoot, he walks into the vacant field beyond the castle and its prison of tree branches.
Daring, I lift my head and look back toward the balcony in time to find Cael and Alana standing there, watching us with varying levels of distress and concern.
Inexplicably, Alana meets my eyes, lifts her hand, and waves.
A second after I register that she’s smiling the entire scene shifts, and the castle with its moth monarchs disappears.
Chapter 20
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The list of things Castor won’t do for me is short, but annoying.
“Castor…” I protest, albeit weakly.
His smile carves itself into my skin as the backs of his fingers dance across my cheek. He’s close, so close, and we’re lying down, in my bed, aloft, in the golden cage I walked right back into after he brought me home from promises of freedom.
Because I’m demented, obviously.
And delusional.
And in need of tremendous amounts of therapy…
And—
“Yes, my heart?” he whispers.
I swallow, and my cells bend toward him, eager, interested, dazed…
My thumb grazes from the tip of his pinkie to his wrist. I shudder and close my eyes as Castor’s tongue draws yet another picture into my throat.
We should stop. Really we should.
Right now, layers and layers of magic cloth separate us, but the fabric of his robes and the reams of my dress are somewhat less comforting when I feel all the same sensations ofhimfrom them. With a snap of his fingers, I’ll be in nothing but the undergarments I bought when he took me shopping.
This is a bad idea.
It’s been mere days.
