“I don’t want you to protect me.” She takes a step forward, her gaze flicking to the blood staining my shirt. “What I want is the truth. What really happened to you?”
My shoulders tense for a fraction of a second before I fall back into the persona of Prince Charming. “It’s like I told you. Jealous lovers from the past.”
The truth burns on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back. I've learned the hard way that revealing my father's abuse only leads to more pain. Not just for me, but for anyone who tries to intervene.
But it's more than that. I don't want her to see me as a victim, to look at me with pity, or worse, to see me as weak. The role of the carefree, self-indulgent prince is a mask I've worn for so long it's become a part of me. It’s my armor, protecting me from making reckless decisions driven by my pain. If I let that mask slip, even for a moment, I might give the old man a true reason to kill me.
Confident my face is healed enough, I cast a sardonic smile at her. “And shouldn’t you be learning the latest dances right about now? There are only two hundred and twenty of them to memorize to be proficient at any Midnight ball.”
She doesn’t soften, only studies me with a serious, unrelenting gaze.
Under Cinder's scrutiny, my skin warms several degrees.
That must be the blood I just consumed.
“I told you,” I exclaim with an exaggerated sigh. “We aren’t even really together and now you are going to make a fuss about my past trysts? That will make the next couple of months quite difficult,” I say airily.
I want Cinder to call me Prince Slut Muffin and think of me like everyone else does. A self-indulgent troublemaker who doesn’t carry his pain like a brand. Better she think me a promiscuous ass than learn the truth. I’m a promiscuous ass who takes regular beatings from his father.
The lie goes down easier than the truth and my throat is raw.
Cinder's eyes flash with annoyance. “Bullshit. You expect me to believe some jealous husband did this to you?”
She gestures to my face, only moments ago covered in bruises and cuts. “I'm not an idiot, Charming. Someone beat the living hell out of you, and I want to know who.”
Her gaze drops to where bright red spots mar my white shirt. I reflexively grip the crude color in a fist, covering it from her gaze before I know what I’ve done.
Cinder’s violet eyes swing back up to meet mine. Something crackles in them. I expect it to be anger and disgust at drinking blood.
She pierces into me with invisible needles, searching for the truth. For a moment I almost wonder if she has the power of thrall herself.
You want to know what happened? I was punished because of you, my gorgeous demoness.
I can’t ignore the anger still running rampant through me. It takes all my power to push my smile up into my eyes, and the effort leaves me exhausted.
I swallow hard and break eye contact with her to look down at the hand that still grips the spot that’s likely already stained my shirt.
I need to distract her before she forces me to spill everything in a landslide of tar and sludge.
There are two main tactics of diversion I often resort to. One is lighthearted joking. Since that hasn’t worked, I move on to number two. Sex appeal.
I yank the shirt off over my head. My muscles flex in a way that I know draws the eye.
Exposing flesh usually distracts, and even Cinder can’t help but take a quick tour of my exposed body.
Wait. She isn’t ogling.
Her eyes roam my body like she’s checking for more injuries.
The idea she cares sends a powerful emotion swirling underneath my rage. It feels like a small seed being watered after years of drought.
No one knows who I am outside the persona. No one truly cares what I am when I’m not giving them pleasure or amusement. I’m not a person. I’m a thing. A performance to be enjoyed.
But that's not how Cinder looks at me. That’s never how she’s looked at me.
Even through the lace obscuring her eyes that first night I pulled her to the dance floor, I found myself entranced by her serious, probing gaze.
Suddenly I’m as vulnerable and wanting as a teenage boy again, watching the little human girl enjoying her own little world. The old pangs of longing to touch her solitude and peace shoot through me.
