Page 79

“The reason I warned you,” he says, “is because I hoped I’d never have to make a choice like that again.”

“What is it you’re saying, Killian? Because it’s starting to sound a lot like a threat.”

Raising his hands before him in a gesture of peace, he speaks in a voice so muted, I have to strain to hear it. “I guess what I’m saying is that I do love you, Shiv. And though I know it’s too late for us, that I royally fucked my chances of you ever returning my feelings, I want you to know that I’m resigned to that fate. From here on out, I will seek my pleasures elsewhere, in the hope that, one day, my feelings for you will diminish.”

I meet his confession with a steady gaze, my expression steadfastly neutral, betraying none of the inner turmoil brewing inside me.

“And so,” he continues, “I will promise to honor your wishes and stop chasing after you, if—”

“If I do something for you in return,” I cut in. “Am I right?”

He casts a quick glance around the room before returning to me. “Just… I want you to know that what I said earlier today, it wasn’t a joke. So Shiv, please, I’m imploring you, don’t force me to choose.”

“Choose what?” I say, my voice, like my gaze, sharp as a blade. “Between your loyalty to Arthur and this alleged love you have for me?”

Killian nods, his unwavering gaze fixed onto mine.

“Well then,” I say, the words cutting through the tension like a knife. “It seems you’ve already made your choice.” I turn away, leaving him with a final, “Good night, Killian. And good luck.”

42

Braxton finds me at the bar, where I’m sipping from a glass of citrus-spiked water.

“You okay?” he asks, his expression etched with concern.

“More of the same,” I say, seeing no reason to rehash what I’m sure he can guess. “And you?”

He lets out a sigh. “Elodie wanted me to know she’s come to terms with us being together. Said she’s happy for me, for us. Even apologized for her attempts to interfere with, her words here:what’s so clearly meant to be.”

“Do you believe her?” I ask. “Because that doesn’t sound like the Elodie I know. Contrition is a foreign concept to her.”

Braxton gives a noncommittal shrug, seemingly indifferent to her motives. Then, slipping an arm around my waist, he says, “Seeing as how this is our last party in this place, what do you say we make one more lap around the room before I go?”

Moving through the crowd, we skirt a holographic spectacle where gladiators battle to the death with a ferocious pride of lions, under the avid gaze of a virtual audience casting their stakes. The realism is so striking, it’s easy to forget they’re not real.

When we arrive at a long banquet table that practically groans under the weight of Arthur’s take on an ancient Roman feast, Braxton snatches a handful of grapes and teasingly feeds them to me while playfully fanning me with his free hand. His antics spark a fit of laughter so intense, he eventually has to relent.

Drawing me closer, he whispers, “I look forward to more moments like this. Your laughter—it’s a melody too seldom heard around here.”

I grin, my mind filling with visions of what a normal life, in a normal place, far from the extraordinary confines of Gray Wolf, might look like.

The two of us playfully arguing over who gets to control the TV remote.

Braxton and I, wandering the aisles of a grocery store, looking for the freshest pieces of produce.

Both of us engaged in a fierce debate over the eternal question of whether toilet paper should hang over or under the roll.

The very idea of Braxton, so larger than life in so many ways, immersed in such ordinary domestic tasks, ignites another round of laugher that I find nearly impossible to control.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, his lips brushing my cheek.

“Nothing,” I manage to say. “Or maybe everything. I guess it depends on how you look at it, doesn’t it?”

Suddenly the music stops, drawing all eyes to the stage, where Arthur stands before the mic. In a rare departure from his typical attire of understated, affluent ease, tonight he wears a costume of ancient regality, the type of which his favorite Roman emperor, Marcus Aurelius, known as the philosopher king, might’ve worn.

His head is encased in a gleaming bronze helmet, crowned with a black plume. His body is ensconced in armor composed of interlaced leather and metal strips. A pair of broad shoulder guards stretch down his upper arms, enhancing his formidable appearance. A purple woolen cloak, clasped at one shoulder, complements the knee-length tunic beneath, its purple hue a symbol of royalty and authority. Completing the ensemble, a pair of heavy leather sandals lends an air of authentic period detail.

Seeing him now, as he gazes among his admiring crowd, it strikes me as ironic how Arthur, who claims to have read Marcus Aurelius’sMeditationscountless times, seems to have overlooked its core message entirely.