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His expression shutters, the vulnerability in his gaze going dark. What replaces it isn’t anger, but something colder, more distant. “Whatever you want.”

My heart cracks as he shifts me off his lap, rises, and strides from the mausoleum.

All without a backward glance.

Chapter 32

RIVEN

I’m fucking tired.

Tired of eating every meal with a different female on fifteen-minute rotations.

Tired of pretending the fate of my kingdom doesn’t rest on my choices.

Tired of wondering if Gwyn has actually fallen for me or if it’s all in my godsdamned head.

Really, I’m just so fucking tired of being fucking tired.

After leaving Gwyn in the mausoleum, I caught up with Arkyn and sent him off to track down Devlin. That left me to search the Covenant-Tongue’s quarters for the hidden drawer—only to come up empty. If he’d kept any proof that could incriminate him, he’d taken it with him when he fled from the Fae Isles.

When I returned to my suite, I had barely enough time to change into something presentable before heading to the dining hall for my one-on-one courting session, resigned to setting up additional wards later this evening.

Now, Daphne sits across from me, prattling on about gods know what.

My head pounds, temples throbbing, as I push food around my plate with no intention of eating. My appetite is nonexistent—though my hunger for a certain witch is anything but.

My gaze drifts to the window overlooking the gardens. To Gwyn.

She’s deep in conversation with Miriya and Lyrielle, but even from here, I can tell she’s worn thin. Her focus intensifies on the brides when they speak, like she’s clinging to the conversation with sheer force of will. She tucks her hair behind her ear, revealing the spot where Devlin struck her.

The handprint is gone, but I can still see it when I close my eyes.

She toys with the long sleeves of her dress. It’s an unseasonably warm morning, and I’m sure she’s sweating beneath those layers.

But I also know why she’s wearing them.

She’s hiding the marks I left on her skin. Love bites and bruises from a night that started with pleasure and ended in pain.

Before Devlin hit her.

Before we summoned my mother.

Before I declared Gwyn mine.

Before she refused to claim me in return.

“If you’d rather be eating with a certain witch, King Riven,” Daphne says gently, “please feel free. I think Gwyn would make a wonderful queen to your people.”

“Undoubtedly,” I murmur.

The word leaves my mouth before I can stop it. I blink, startled by my own honesty, and turn to her, ready to apologize.

“I knew it!” she exclaims, pointing at me. Her soil-rich gaze glitters in the sunlight. “You need to tell her.”

I lean back in my chair and steeple my fingers. “I need to tell her what, exactly?”

“The truth, obviously.”