Malachi flops down on the sofa and grabs my feet to pull me closer to him. “You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head and glance at my hands twisting in my lap.
“You were sobbing like your heart was breaking, Daphne,” Nash says gently as he sweeps my hair over my shoulder. I hiccup. I can’t speak the words they want to hear—voicing my dream gives it more substance. I’d rather it faded from memory, like most dreams do.
“Is there anything we can do?” Theo asks as he crouches down at the side of the sofa and gathers my hand in his. My vision flickers between the simmering ashes of their bodies and reality.
I shake my head again. “I’m okay. I just need a moment.”
“Good, because breakfast with our father is imminent,” Hart grumbles. “The sooner we get it over with, the better.”
Right, time to shake off the lingering melancholy and grab the diurnal by the horns. I jump to my feet and stretch my arms up. A good stretch always sets me up right for the diurnal.
Theo mutters a curse and Malachi whistles low.
I spin and cock a brow as my hands land on my bare hips. “What?” You would think they’d never seen a maiden stretch before.
“Clothes, pretty mouse,” Theo drawls. “Use them.”
“Please don’t,” Malachi begs as his gaze slides down my exposed skin. Right, I neglected getting dressed for bed in favor of cuddling with Hart under the fur throw on the sofa. I swore I was going to close my eyes for a tempo, but the lingering effects of the orgasm must have sent me into a heavy sleep.
“It’s not like you haven’t seen my body before,” I grumble.
Nash snatches the throw from the sofa. My gaze drops to Hart, who somehow put his breaches on. That’s hardly fair.
Nash wraps the fur around my shoulders, and the four of them stand, surrounding me. My spine straightens at the similarity to my dream.
“Game plan?” Malachi asks.
“Get the truth of our parentage out of Arthur,” Nash begins. “Assess what that means for the legend of Arthur and if it could help us navigate the rules to avoid Daphne and Theo dying.”
My gut clenches at the reminder of the threat at our throats.
“There’s a dress for you in my chambers,” Malachi says, pointing at the closed door to his room. “I can come along and help you.” He waggles his eyebrows.
I snort. “I can dress myself. Give me five tempos.” If he follows, we won’t be getting dressed.
I hurry into the chamber and close the door, leaning my back against it. The phantom chill from my dream persists, skitteringdown my spine, like I am straddling the real world and the imaginary one.
As we strideinto the great hall, now absent of wannabe princesses with designs on my knights, I wonder if King Arthur ever leaves here, other than to bed a different female every evening. If he moved his bed in here, I’m sure he could save himself the bother of the small journey, perhaps rutting into his special lady for the night while continuing to feast and lord over the kingdom. Now that image is stuck inside my mind, and sadly, it’s better than my dream.
Arthur arches a bushy eyebrow at us as we take our seats across from him at the long table filled with a hundred different plates of food. My stomach gurgles in protest. It seems my gremlin isn’t enjoying the effects of my dream, either.
Malachi sits on one side of me, Hart on the other, and they work together to place items on the silver platter in front of me. I love everything they put on it, and it shows how closely they have been paying attention to my preferences. It warms something in my chest.
I pick up my fork and push a piece of pre-cut sausage around my plate. How ridiculous that they chopped the sausage to save Arthur the effort of doing it himself.
Arthur’s shrewd gaze doesn’t leave my face as I abandon the sausage in favor of the freshly squeezed orange juice. The tart taste feels good against my tongue, like it’s trying to wash away the heartbreak.
“I knew I recognised you,” Arthur finally drawls.
I glance at the few doors, noting the guards positioned at each one. Is that the norm? “We met last diurnal,” I answer without looking at him, my leg bouncing underneath the table.
“No, Daphne. You stole something that is rightfully mine,” he says, leaning forward in his chair.
“Oh, and what is that?” I answer, finally meeting his eyes. I know something he doesn’t. That sword was never his.
The knights have gone stiff around me. Malachi’s hand lands on my shaking thigh, gently squeezing it in a silent show of support. But if they jump in to my rescue, then it will only add weight to what Arthur is saying.
