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“Because she’s your daughter and you love her,” I surmise.
“Obviously.”
No, it’s not obvious to me. Not all parents love their children. “Did you love her mother?”
“No,” he replies unemotionally as he gets back in bed, settling on his side and once again facing me with his head propped in his hand. “It was a once only. She wanted a baby.”
That’s… weird.
I sit cross-legged, the sheet tucked under my armpits, and sip my coffee. It’s disconcerting, the way he so casually lounges, oblivious to his nudity. My eyes keep darting to his wings, folded tight to his back. They’re fascinating to me.
“You like them,” he says matter-of-factly.
I blush at him calling out my ogling. “They’re stunning. And so soft. And that thing you did last night, lifting us in the air…”
“That felt especially good,” he agrees. “I’ll take you flying sometime.”
My eyes about pop out of my head. “Really?”
“Of course.”
My gaze drops to my cup. This is all so surreal. I’m in freaking Hell, at any given time probably close to landing myself in the Crimson River, and yet some of the best experiences of my life are happening.
“Those look like some heavy thoughts,” Amell observes.
“It’s just…” My eyes lift and I cradle the cup. “I don’t understand why this is in my hand.”
Amell frowns. “Not following.”
“I murdered someone. I got sent to Hell. I should be in the river right now. And here I am with a cup of coffee, in the king’s bed.”
“I see how that might be confusing,” he says, but offers no further explanation. “Why did you kill Vince?”
My body jerks so hard, the hot beverage sloshes over the edge of my cup and discolors the white satin at my lap. “Shit… sorry.”
Amell waves a hand, and the wetness and stain disappear.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You can’t just do that to your own sheets each day and clean them?”
“I could,” he replies blandly. “But then what would I have you do? Now, why did you kill Vince?”
I’m prepared for the question the second time. “He was opportune.”
Shifting up to his elbow, Amell reaches out and drags a finger across my satin-covered thigh. “You know, if you felt just a tiny bit of remorse, I could petition Zora to have you reincarnated.”
I can’t make this any clearer, so I look the king dead in the eye. “I’m not sorry in the slightest.”
“Zora could command me to throw you in the Crimson River,” he says, voice tight with tension.
“It would be deserved,” I reply.
“So be it,” he says, and I can’t tell anything by his tone, it’s so neutral. He exits the bed and heads toward his closet. “I’ve got some things to handle this morning. I’ll grab my own breakfast.”
Reaching over, I set the coffee on the table and slide out of bed, bringing the sheet with. I wrap it around me as I ask, “Are you mad I’m not sorry about it?”
Amell turns, a pair of pants in his hand. “Of course I’m not mad. I’m evil, remember. I don’t care if you murdered a hundred men.”
“I don’t think you’re evil,” I say, clutching the sheet at my chest.
