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3
Prince Daein has had me all Quiet, as he has done the many Quiets before.
He seems to never tire of me. And I’ve yet to become weary of him.
The pleasure he brought me this time has me sprawled out, breathless, on his bed, the sheer beige dress I wore discarded on the floor in a heap. I’m wrapped only in sheets—more tangled than anything—my curls a wild mop over my face.
Beside me, the prince rolls onto his side. Elbow bent into the mattress, he props up his head on his hand and considers me.
Through the mess of hair covering my face, I see slivers of his dark smile.
I gasp a smile of my own, unable to fight it off.
Any barriers I had up against him have been obliterated by these Quiets spent in his bedchamber. In the Hall, he is his cold self, but the moment we are in here, something changes in him, and it’s enough to flurry a mass of butterflies in my stomach.
Even now, I’m plagued with the fluttering in my gut just looking at him. His hair is all dishevelled and fallen over his forehead, his mouth is swollen from all the kisses against my skin, and the dim candlelight turns his honeyed skin into something closer to the cinnamon coffee he has each Warmth. He only keeps the lighter tones to his skin because of the sheer inky darkness of his tattoos.
He reaches his free hand for my face. Strand by strand, he peels the hair away from my face to reveal me.
His smirk fades into a ghost of one. “Do you want for anything?” he asks me.
I blink at him, my lashes heavy from all the rolling around in the bed, from all the times I cried out his name in pleasure—the only times I speak his name. I’m sure if I said it any other time, he would strike me down for it.
I think of his question, of the meaning behind it. He knows that I yearn to return home most of all. And I know that’s not what he’s really asking me.
He means lover things. Dresses, new soaps and perfumes, better pillows for my bed that I rarely sleep in, and even new sweets to please my tongue with.
The small things.
I shake my head, smiling still.
“If you want for nothing, what can I give you?” His mouth flattens into a slanted line.
“Do you want to give me something?” I ask, arching my brows at him.
“Many things,” he confesses, his tone dropping. “When you please me,” he explains, his fingertip drawing the line of my jaw, “I wish to reward you. And you please me so often.”
I choke on a light laugh, then turn onto my side to mirror him.
I fold my arm under my head like a bony, hard pillow.
“What’s your reward for all the pleasure you give me?” I challenge.
“You,” he answers simply.
I won’t be here forever, I want to say. Only six weeks to go.
But that will sour him and his mood.
The prince turns away from me for a moment, reaching his arm back to the small blackwood table beside the bed. He lifts up the bowl of apples, then brings it around to the small space between us. Setting it down, I spot the tiny phial of white powder tucked between some apples.
That’s how he delivers it to me now. Feels less like business this way. I take the phial out of the bowl along with an apple.
These ones are better for humans. A hybrid, the prince called them once. Apparently mixed seeds from my old world and his one. I can eat a full apple without stumbling into walls and toppling off the bed. Though sometimes, I do get a little dizzy, so as I bring its sharp green skin to my lips, I take only a small bite.
The crisp, sour taste helps with the bitter white powder that I tip into my mouth. I chew on both, relishing in the pleasant blend of flavours.
The prince doesn’t eat the apples. He’s reached out for my hair and winds a curl around his finger.
