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“Against you?” I scathed. “Plague. Natural disasters. Traitors and assassins. A broken treaty and an unexpected war with another Season. Brush up on your princess skills, because if Mama Autumn hasn’t warned you yet, devastation is a monarch’s responsibility. A seat at the Peace Talks and a failed debate with the Royals might soon be the least of your challenges. If you can’t handle that, then at least fake your gratitude when a person cares enough about you to help.”
“I care about you, too!”
In an instant, I stood in front of Briar. My hot breath clashed with hers. “Tell me, then. Tell me what I am to you.”
I scarcely entertained the illusion that our world would accept us. Yet my mind demanded to know. However daft, my pulse hammered to know.
Briar’s eyes shimmered. Naturally, the answer I wanted didn’t come.
Without noticing it, I’d let her too far into me.
“I’m Autumn. You’re Spring,” she said, helpless. “You’re staying. I’m leaving.”
“You’re royalty. I’m not.” My chuckle came out spiteful, as dry as soot. “It must have been titillating for you, having the sinful Court Jester at your disposal, bringing your pretty-filthy secret to his knees—in so many ways.”
Pink flooded Briar’s cheeks. “It wasn’t like that! You are—”
“Of course, whilst you were beating the shit out of my heart in the throne room, I would have appreciated you not crushing my agenda.”
“They’re my predecessors and have reigned for decades. They’ve done it while maintaining a peaceful alliance. I had to consider their arguments.”
“You fickle, submissive twit! I’ve spent a year buttering up Spring, but in a single bite you chewed my efforts and spit them back out!”
“I hardly forced you to snarl at me in public.” She flattened a palm on her stomach, the other extending toward me in a placating gesture. “Poet, I believe from the bottom of my heart in what you’re doing. I’m on your side, but you’re looking at this as a father. I must look at this as a Royal. I can’t shirk what my ancestors put in place.”
“You mean the dead and buried ones, sweeting?” I snarled. “Those ancestors?”
“Stop talking down to me, Poet. I’m not a lost child who will never grasp the difference between left and right. I’m not Nicu!”
Dead. Silence.
When I’d flung those daggers at that wooden board in the great hall last night, the impact vibrated the hilt. Her words were those daggers. I was the marker. She hit my center, cleaved into it.
I staggered back, one clumsy step, like a fool.
Like afool.
If the bell wailed, I wouldn’t hear it. Her voice hacked through me enough. If I’d been livid before, ’twas nothing compared to this.
This pain.
Briar’s eyes widened as she registered her mistake. Her brows winged into her forehead, and her skin whitened in horror. “No,” she pleaded, stricken. “No, Poet. I didn’t mean …”
What she didn’t mean was to cross that line. But she had.
This, after treating my son with kindness, after tricking me into thinking her above them.
Panic pushed her toward me. “Poet, I’m sor—”
My palm snapped up, halting her. With my jaw locked, I swatted my finger once, making it clear.
Not. Another. Word.
She could be sorry all she wanted. I was sure she would be, for losing a coveted jester was like losing a gilded sex toy—expensive and pleasurable, yet still a cheap thrill.
Indeed, she could be sorry. And so what? Sorry wasn’t the whole story. When anger came out and drew words like swords, so did the truth.
So now I knew how she really felt.
