“Why do you do that?” I ask.
She snatches her fork from the table and stabs it into the bed of lettuce. “Do what?”
I tilt my head toward the exit. “Try to speak to the staff.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asks around a meager helping of the salad.
“They’re the help,” I explain. “Nobody. Nothing.”
She scoffs. “Says the High Prince who has never had to grovel at another person’s feet.”
I could correct her on the title. I’m High King now, after all, but I remain silent. She has no clue how wrong she is. I’ve been groveling all my life. The feet may have changed over the years, but it never stops. Once, it was Father’s snake-skinned boots, now it’s Cora’s black leather heels.
“What?” Elle asks. “Do I not speak the truth?” I shrug away the question and take another bite. “Is this how you won Mae over? Silence and brooding over all the things you had? Oh, poor High Prince. Born with everything but a soul.”
I can’t help the laugh that comes.
She quirks an eyebrow. “Funny?”
I shove my plate away, barely touched. “You’re right.”
She grunts something, then finishes her salad without another word. I signal to the waitstaff that hovers by the door, and he rushes toward me. Embarrassing. Why would anyone deign to speak to them?
“Wine.”
He returns moments later, reaching to pop the cork. I stop him and motion for the bottle. But before I wave him away, I force myself to say, “Thank you.” The words taste like dirt, but a peek down the bond reveals a new emotion from Elle—shock, tinged with curiosity.
The male skitters off. I rise, popping the cork, and walk to Elle’s side of the table. She watches me with fascination, the green flecks of her eyes, mixed with honey, now sparkling. It makes my skin feel too tight.
I pour the red wine into her glass, marveling at the way it fills as it sloshes. Father used to always call red wineblood wine. He used to jokethat it was the blood of our enemies, then clink his glass with Mother’s. Then, when I got older, with Cora’s.
“Why does that make you so happy?” I ask as I return to my seat, my back turned to Elle.
“What?”
“Why did it make you happy when I thanked the waiter?” I clarify as I sit.
She gulps down her wine. “Because it’s a nice thing to do.”
“But why is it?”
She sets the glass on the table, stroking the base with her thumb. Again, my skin feels too tight. I adjust my jacket, but it doesn’t help. “You’ve never had to be anything less than, because you’ve always been on top. You have no idea what it’s like to be treated like dirt on someone’s shoe.”
But I know exactly what it feels like to be treated like that. I know the feeling of being kicked when I’m down—of being stomped on when my face is caked with blood. I know the bite of the whip, the kiss of the blade over thick scars, the sinking of a fist into black-and-blue skin, again, and again, and again.
I know exactly what cruelty is like.
I snort as I reach for my glass. “Being nicedoes no favors for anyone and gets you nowhere. I just don’t get the sentiment.”
“And do you like that about yourself?” she asks me.
No. I don’t like a single thing about myself. “It’s gotten me where I am,” I answer.
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re a murderer on a stolen throne,” she says drily.
Now it’s my turn to quirk an eyebrow. “Careful, Elle. You’re beginning to speak of murder with a nonchalance that resembles…well, me.”
“I will never be anything close to the person you are,” she hisses.
