Page 25

The air begins to cool as night falls, but it does nothing to dry the sweat clinging to my nape as I portal from isle to isle, enacting protection wards to shield Gwyn. Each new addition tugs at my magic, an action that should be effortless—but isn’t because of the blight.

My bones are heavy, my skin too tight.

Even my power, once limitless, seems to fray at the edges, like a thread pulled too hard.

This weakness is new to me, and I fucking hate it.

But Gwyn… I made a vow to protect her from her coven. These wards will not only do that, but they’ll also give her the peace of mind that I take her safety seriously.

Would you believe me if I said nearly everything written in Warnings from the Wicked is a lie?

I read and reread Gwyn’s story in that damned book countless times over the last six months, and after meeting her, after hearing her desire for safety, for asylum in my kingdom… it only confirms she’s not the villain in her story at all.

It’s her coven.

Covens are meant to be sacred, a family. For her to have fled from hers… they must’ve done something truly terrible.

I won’t be used by them ever again.

It begs the question, what did her coven make her do?

By the time I portal into my suite, I’m unraveling at the seams, mind spinning with thoughts of Gwyn, her coven, and that dreadful story.

I need to rest, to recharge, to clear my mind of⁠—

“My king,” breathes a whisper of a voice.

Vessaryn Croft, palace healer and the female who occasionally warms my bed, kneels on the floor, completely naked.

Her soft skin glitters from the candlelight, her nipples taut.

The scent of her desire is thick in the air, roiling my stomach.

“Vess,” I say, and she takes it as permission to rise. “I didn’t call upon you.”

“You didn’t have to, my king. You were gone for days,” she says, drifting closer. “I know what you require—a warm bath and a warm body to ease the weight of the Crown.”

She reaches for me, but I step away. For the briefest of moments, something flickers in her expression just before she smooths it back into a sultry smile.

“Would you prefer to watch me touch myself?” Her fingers skate along her breasts, and I shake my head. Her hands fall limp at her sides. “Then… what do you want?”

“I want you to leave.”

“Is this about the witch?” she asks, rage brimming in her pale green eyes. “The staff is already talking about her and how you paraded her through the palace and escorted her into the bridal suite your mother designed for me.”

“Vessaryn.” I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. And my mother didn’t design the suite for you, no matter what she told you on her deathbed.”

She storms across the room, dressing with a speed and fury I’ve never seen from her.

“You’ll regret this,” she says, roughly buttoning her skirt.

“I already do,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose.

But I’m not talking about the bargain I made with Gwyn or bringing her here.

I’m talking about nights like these between two childhood friends, born of mutual loneliness and one-sided pining that morphed into obsession. Her obsession. And I think she knows it too, because the hatred in her glare as she fastens that last button promises to send me to an early grave.

I easily dismiss it.