Page 13 of The Poison Princess and the Lord of Misrule

Make his sad princess happy for him.

With measured steps, I approach her. My boots are clean today. A servant scrubbed them, which feels like another betrayal. Though I’m having a hard time loathingmyself for it too much right now as I come close enough to the princess to make out the gentle curl of her lips.

Gods, she’s beautiful. A goddess from another realm, unearthly. Created by the divines themselves, I’m sure of it.

The fucking bells announce me with an annoying jangle, and she looks up from the book at the disruption.

And there it is again, that unfathomable feeling. Intense and terrifying. The floor tilts beneath me, gravity giving way, everything now sloping toward her.

“Your Highness,” I say, and immediately swear an oath beneath my breath. “Forgive me, I forgot. I’m not supposed to—” I shut my mouth and bow low.

The bow is clumsy, the loud jangle of the bells tempting me to rip the hat away. But as I straighten and dare to meet her gaze, I see the corner of her mouth lift a fraction higher.

It makes my chest too damn tight.

“What are you not supposed to do?” she asks me.

Hearing her voice… Seven hells, her voice is so lovely. Throaty and careful, as if every word is weighed before it’s released. It’s the first time I’ve heard her speak, and it hits somewhere behind my sternum with a jarring force.

I shake my head, trying to remember what I’d been saying before. Then, eyes darting a glance to the steward, I say, “I was told that I’m not allowed to address you directly unless you address me first, Your Highness.”

She tilts her head, just the slightest, studying me quizzically. “That would pose a problem, would it not? Seeing as you need to speak to me toperform your act.”

I rub the back of my neck, suppressing a grin. “It would, Your Highness.” I swallow, taking a bold step forward. “Or I could just stand here, if you’d prefer the spectacle of a man in an ill-fitting costume slowly dying of humiliation.” I shrug. “I suppose that’s also an option.”

She stares at me. Those dark eyes fixed on mine, unreadable. Then her lips purse in amusement. “You may address me, Jester.”

“Ren,” I say. “Just Ren.” I mimic the steward’s pained delivery of my name, and there it is again, the ghost of a smile on her lips. A hairline fracture in her porcelain skin, a flicker of warmth behind the frosted melancholy.

“Ren,” she says in agreement, and my pulse jumps in my throat at hearing my name on her sultry lips.

Fuck—me.

I glance over to the king. He’s absorbed in his maps, gesturing at something with his goblet, paying us no mind. I look back at her. “Do you want me to be funny, Princess?”

Her dark eyebrow arches. “Can you be?”

A low chuckle escapes me, and I clear my throat. “I guess that remains to be seen,” I say, lowering my voice further. “But as I am here to serve you, Your Highness, please tell me what you most want of me.”

The silence between us stretches. Her fingers tighten on the book in her lap, and there’s a shift behind her eyes. “No one has asked me what I want since I arrived.”

Her words are quiet, controlled. But beneath them Ihear a breathy tremor, and my chest aches, a sudden pang that’s almost physical.

Standing here in this bright hall, looking at this girl who carries her sadness like a crown heavier than the silver one in her hair, I recognize a familiar thing in her eyes.

Someone who has lost everything, and is still expected to perform.

“Well,” I say, and my voice comes out softer than I intend. “I’m asking.”

She holds my gaze for an excruciating beat. She doesn’t let her eyes fall to my scar, not once, before she eventually looks down at the book in her hands. Angels above, I do my damnedest to fix my gaze on her face, and not the enticing swell of her breasts pushing above her laced bodice.

“Then make me forget where I am, Jester,” she says. “Even if only for a moment. Read to me.” She holds out the book.

A pit opens up in my stomach, and I frown.

She bites the corner of her lip, and I try not to stare directly at her mouth. “Oh,” she says, setting the book aside, kind enough not to point out the fact that I might not be able to read. “That book is quite boring, anyway. Tell me a story instead. I’m sure you have many good ones.” She offers another frail, almost smile. “As jokes seem to get vegetables thrown at your head.”

I’ll tell her any story she wants, if only to keep her speaking. Her words land in my chestand stay there. Warm. Aching. A command and a confession uttered in the same breath. I’d rather listen to her lovely voice all day.