Page 84
“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, gaping at me. The look on his face isn’t one of anger or hurt. It’s something far worse. It’s worry. “Riven. Are you falling—”
“Enough,” I hiss. “Don’t you dare fucking say it.”
No. No, it can’t be true.
I can’t be falling in love with her.
Not after I agreed it’d be just sex between us.
I clasp my hand over the back of my neck where the curse sears through the remnants of the potion.
The burn is livid.
Ravenous.
It claws at me, trying to devour the truth pounding through me.
A single fucking word carved into my bones, my very soul.
The truth of what I may never truly have because of my mother’s bad intentions.
The truth of what Gwyn might actually be to me.
My mate.
Chapter 22
GWYN
I stay awake far past midnight, brewing another batch of tonics for Riven and replaying the confrontation I witnessed between him and Arkyn. It was a heated conversation, hushed but stern, until the end when Riven seethed a final command and stormed out of the gardens.
Don’t you dare fucking say it.
Say what? What could Arkyn possibly say to him that would cause his carefully crafted mask to crack and shatter in front of the brides?
One of the females—Lyrielle—teasingly called it a lover’s quarrel, which made the rest of the brides less antsy about the confrontation as we continued to play Silt and Soul.
Well, all of them but me.
Maybe I imagined it, but Arkyn looked at me twice during the exchange.
Once before the declaration and once after.
Was the conversation about me?
Does he… know of the line Riven and I have crossed?
And if so, does he disapprove?
Does Arkyn dislike me? Does he think I’m not good enough for his friend, his king?
Whoa. Where have these feelings of self-doubt come from?
It’s just sex.
So why am I wondering this?
I stare out of the terrace windows at the twinkling stars as Achlys purrs from where he sleeps atop the desk, curled up in a night-dark ball of fur.
