Prince Emmett De Vere
There’s a knock at the door, but I don’t bother getting out of bed. The golden clock on the mantel says it’s past nine, but I haven’t moved since Ivy left at dawn.
It’s playing in my head on a loop, her pale skin in the dark, how she looked splayed out under me and undone. She let me touch her like I’d been dying to since that night in the coaching inn. Earlier than that, if I’m being honest with myself.
I’d had to keep my hands balled into fists at my sides to keep from devouring her as she whimpered in her sleep and wrapped her arms and legs around me. I thought that was torture, but now I realize I didn’t know anything about pain, or how bad it was about to get for me.
If I were a better man, good, like Bram, I’d feel guilt or shame about what we did last night, but I’m not good and I’m not ashamed.
I wish I could relive last night forever, nothing else, just Ivy on an endless loop. There was a man who bargained for something like that a few years ago. He ended up going mad and throwing himself into the Thames.
Bram lets himself in, as he always does. Dread punches me inthe stomach at the sight of him. He and Ivy should be on the road by now.
He greets me. “As productive as ever, I see.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be getting engaged tomorrow?” I ask as casually as I can manage. My voice is hoarse. A discarded ribbon from Ivy’s nightdress is beside me. I shove it under the quilt hastily before he sees.
Bram throws opens my curtains, flooding the room with light. I squint my eyes and groan.
“That’s what I came here to talk about. I’ve had quite the morning.” He plops himself down at my desk and kicks his boots up all over the papers.
“I hate it when you do that,” I say.
“I had a little predawn visit from Ivy Benton.”
“Oh?” I feign surprise but want to throw up. Her face flashes through my mind, how she looked on top of me, her porcelain skin in the dark.
I love her. I should have told her that.
Bram smiles a little. “She said my mother told her she’d lost. Classic Mother, always with the power plays.”
“What did you say?” I’m desperate for more information. Where is Ivy? Is she safe?
“I asked her to elope with me. Who else was I going to marry? Olive, who was so obsessed with the idea of me she nearly swooned every single time I spoke to her? Marion Thorne, who literally fell asleep the only time I tried to have a full conversation with her? Emmy was suitable, but there’s something special about Ivy, even if you don’t agree.”
“But here you are, not eloped.”
“I’m getting to that part. I was packing my things, ready to go, when Mother came to my room, very unlike her, and said, ‘It’ll be Lady Ivy Benton, is that suitable?’ I said yes, of course.”
Fear strikes me. “Do you think she knew you were planning on running away?”
Bram shrugs, unbothered. “If she did, she gave no indication. I think she just wanted to play one final game, you know how she gets.”
“I do.” The damn fae and their love of games. With Bram, it’s endless games of billiards. Sometimes he whips himself into a near frenzy over it, and we play until dawn. The queen’s tastes lean bloodier.
I should be happy. I’m getting everything I wanted. In a few short weeks, if I’m right, her reign will be over and my kind, reasonable brother will be king.
Bram stands. “Anyway, just thought you’d like to know your favorite brother is engaged. I’ll let you sleep. You look like absolute shit. Hungover?”
“Yes.” It feels like it. I’m wrecked.
Bram reaches the door, bends down, and tosses a large white box onto my bed. “This was at your door.”
“Thanks,” I reply, and the door shuts behind him.
I lift the lid and find a black wool coat folded neatly and wrapped in tissue paper. On top, tucked under the ribbon, is a letter with a single crease and my name.
I unfold it and begin to read.
