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Three days had passed since our moment in the tower. Three days of pining and feeling inadequate. I had avoided these feelings for the past three years. I couldn’t even blame him for his reaction. I was stunned by his protectiveness and relieved by his care. But the terror and pity in his expression cut me deep. August was well within his right to feel uncomfortable. I was a murderer, and he wasn’t even aware of the extent of my bloodlust.
But I still expected something of him. His anger made sense, but the distance did not. Did he fear me, now? Did he want nothing to do with me?
I also couldn’t shake the memories from my mind. The way he pried my legs open and tasted me. The filthy words he said were on repeat, taunting every moment of my day.
Part of me wondered if August was waiting for me to go to him. Spilling my trauma at his feet exhausted me. I hardly wanted to leave my room, and when I did, I was bombarded with responsibilities and questions that made me want to flee this place. I had a purpose here, but I couldn’t seem to force myself to do it. I was avoiding all of it, refusing to leave my room despite my duties.
I had hoped that my rebellious refusal would force August to come to me, but still I remained alone in my bedroom. Alone with my thoughts, alone with my regrets, and alone with the fear that I was back in the hell I had run from.
My doorknob twisted, and I held my breath in anticipation, a giddy excitement fluttering in my stomach at the thought of seeing August again. But instead of a king, I was greeted with the dark gaze of someone far more dangerous.
Atticus walked through the door and gave me a smirk, noting the way my silk pajama strap hung off my shoulder, and the blade in my grip.
“A day of lounging?” he asked before sitting on the edge of my mattress. He crossed his legs and placed his hands in his lap. I admired the way his hair was effortlessly styled. The scruff on his jawline added a ruggedness about him that made me bite the inside of my cheek.
“I’m avoiding my responsibilities. If they make me do one more press circuit, I think I’ll scream.” I didn’t bother lying to Atticus; he had this ability of seeing the truth no matter what.
He smirked at me. “You’re not the type to avoid anything. Run, perhaps, but never avoid. You become stronger. Dive headfirst into your demons and conquer them. It’s one of the things I love about you.”
I set the blade down and sat up. My nightgown slipped up my thigh, exposing more creamy skin that had Atticus’s eyes growing heavy.
“Why would you say that?” I asked.
He cocked his head to the side. “Say what?”
“That you love anything about me. You hardly know me anymore.”
He laughed. “I know you better than any of these idiots here. I know the sound you make when you’re plunging a knife in someone’s gut. I know the exact shade of red that caresses your cheeks when you’re embarrassed or longing for someone. I know that for the first year that you were gone, you had nightmares.”
I scoffed at him, despite the heavy feeling in my chest. I used to have to drink a bottle of wine to force the nightmares away. “Watching and experiencing are not the same thing, Atticus. You can’t watch me through the window and still think that you know me.”
Atticus crawled along the mattress, closing in on me with his heated stare. I sucked in a breath as he grabbed my thigh and yanked me forward, forcing my back to hit the mattress and slipping my entire body beneath his muscular frame.
“I breathe you in, Christine,” he said before leaning down to run his nose along the curve of my shoulder, dragging it along my creamy skin until his lips were brushing against my neck. “You’re in my lungs. You’re in my soul. And I’m in your head. Tell me I don’t know you, Christine. Give me a reason to prove otherwise.”
My breath hitched, and for a fleeting moment, I wanted nothing more than to give in to the distraction Atticus offered. But I knew if I allowed things to move forward with him, there would be no crawling out of the hopeless pit of my affections for him.
The truth was, if I allowed myself to jump off that cliff—to fall for Atticus—there would be no getting back up. And how was a woman supposed to love two men at the same time? How was a woman supposed to love three?
My heart wasn’t big enough. My soul was too jaded and too ruined for such a task.
“Get off of me,” I said, though I didn’t sound very convincing. My raspy voice betrayed me.
Atticus ran his lips over the shell of my ear, breathing and testing the boundaries of our relationship. “Yes, Lady Abernathy.”
When he pulled away, I felt a deep sense of loss. It was as if he hollowed me out, leaving nothing but a shell of grief in his tracks. I hated this feeling. I hated that August left me, and I hated that I couldn’t act on my affections for anyone else without feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt. I hated that I felt unworthy. I hated that I was worried August would never look at me the same way.
I didn’t want to be a broken queen.
Atticus stared at me. “Why do you have tears in your eyes, pretty girl? Who do I need to murder?”
I licked my lips. “It’s nothing. Let me be.”
Atticus shook his head. “It’s August, isn’t it? He’s the one who always seems to put that look on your face. What did he do?”
I let out a shaky sigh, feeling stuck between wanting to open up to Atticus but also feeling protective of August, too. “He hasn’t spoken to me since I told him. It’s been three days, Atticus.”
He nodded, soaking in my words for a moment before responding. “Rumors have it that the future king has stepped into his role. He moved into his father’s old office and is running the kingdom—albeit perhaps floundering about—but still making an effort.”
