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He’s disgusted with himself, I realize.
Finally, his mouth closes over the wound and he drinks. It’s a smaller cut and the blood doesn’t flow as freely compared to last time; it takes longer for the horns to shrink and for the plants to wither away. We don’t speak, or even really look at each other, but sometimes I feel his grip tighten and my pulse races under his thumb.
When the changed parts of him have faded, Cyrus falls back onto the bed, heaving with relief. I start bandaging my hand, careful not to let any blood stain the white of my nightgown.
After a minute he sits up again, looks around the room at my neatly folded items and my traveling gear, and frowns.
“Are you—?” he begins to ask.
“I’m finally getting out of your hair.”
“You can’t leave,” Cyrus says with such certainty as he stares at my bandaging.
I realize what he means and I laugh haltingly. “Because you need my blood? You have it the wrong way around.Youclearly need to leave, too. Give the throne to Camilla or something. Look at yourself. You can’t rule like this.”
“If I give the throne to my sister, I may as well set the kingdom on fire myself. I’ll get the same results faster. She would do it grudgingly, but…No, I need to rule. Otherwise what Dante did would…It would have meant nothing.”
I remember who I’m dealing with—the once-prince tainted by the disease he calls courage—so I laugh louder in his face until he understands. “What’s done is done. Your father is dead; who cares why? To hell with the good of this kingdom! The dukes were ready to keep you from your throne based on a prophecy that hadn’t even happened yet. Now it’s happening. Now you’re turning into abeast.They will have yourhead.”
But Cyrus is ever quick to mistake survival for selfishness. I can see in the dullness of his gaze that he doesn’t get it. That none of this is ridiculous at all. “They don’t need to see me like this. Which is why you have to stay. You and I can meet like this once a week, and it should be enough—”
“No.” I stand, and he surges to his feet after me.
“This isyourfault!” There it is—all the bite that he’s held back until now. Itisall my fault. And I’m running away from it, I know I am.
“You’re going to get both of us killed.” I glance away.
“Do I need to threaten you?”
“I have nothing to lose.”
When Cyrus tilts my chin toward him, he only stares at me in desperate silence, until he asks, “What do you want in return for staying?”
“Nothing you can give me.”
“I can make you queen.”
Blood roars in my ears.
I know that look on his face. I’ve seen him hopeful, weary, monstrous, always handsome no matter the form, cheeks blushed with shadow in a way that invites mystery, and still freckled like the boy I grew up with. There’s no deceit or compulsion in that look. Not even much in the way of disgust.
His thumb strokes my jaw wonderingly. “I’ve always known that the queen beside me would be better made of ice than flesh,” he murmurs. “That it would be cruel to love anyone less resilient. But I didn’t expect to find myself so willing.”
I clench fistfuls of my gown, no longer caring of the blood seeping through my palm. Haven’t I done enough to him? I remember when he said, under duress, that I would be the one to decide Felicita’s prophecy. He couldn’t still believe that. The prophecy has passed. Damnation has fallen.
But the witch is still out there, and war has not yet come.
AndIcould still be his bride….
I am dizzy with victory in a game I’m not supposed to be playing. “People would—they would never accept me. Besides, what good is tethering myself to a doomed king?”
“People accept anything if they’re entertained enough. You know that more than anyone else. And, well, where do you plan to go otherwise?” Cyrus gestures at my few belongings. “You don’t know a life outside this city. I can make your travels difficult enough that you’ll want to come back.”
Now it’s my turn to glare. “I’ll manage. You need me more than I need you.”
“Then we both still need each other.”
All this time, my mind has been working fast. The thing is, with Cyrus’s help, Icouldcraft a tale worthremembering. One that might absolve me of all I’ve done, even if I still seem like a pining damsel. It has to be that way; little lies go down easier. It’ll be a love story like fate that’ll make the world forget everything else.
