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Chapter Twenty-Nine

A breath along the dip of my neck pulls me from sleep once more.

This time, the sun pours generously over the room. I squeeze my eyes shut against the onslaught of light and nuzzle back into a cocoon of warmth.

Only that cocoon is vibrating.

I angle my head and find Anton shaking, a sheen of sweat coating his brow. His muscles are locked, as if tensed for danger. The smooth, bare skin of his chest is damp, too, and his arms come around me, fingers splaying about my abdomen.

A burst of panic jolts me, but I can’t seem to pull away. Not when he looks like he’s in . . . pain.

A nightmare.

Before I can stop myself, I roll over and reach out. Cup my palms over his cheeks. “Anton?”

He does not wake. His hand comes up to grip my wrist, his breathing shallow—

I throw my arms around him, pull him against my chest as if I could protect him, shield him. My lips find a spot just over his brows.

Green eyes, vivid in the morning light, fly open.

I withdraw, my own chest heaving now. “You—you were having a nightmare. I couldn’t wake you.”

He takes a long moment to process my words. Our proximity.

“The sword,” he murmurs.

I bite my lip, unable to voice that, yes, I moved it.

I moved it, perhaps in a state of delirium, because what could I have been thinking?

He is a king. Not to mention a charmer, a seducer.

And here I am, in his bed, wearing almost nothing.

But before I can put distance between the heat of his body and the stuttering pulse of my heart, he slowly props himself up on his elbows and pulls the sheets over my shoulders, saying, “Fates, does it pain me to do that.”

I breathe out, grateful, even as an embarrassed heat rises within me. Until he adds, “You do look like you belong here, however. Truly, you are welcome to stay any time. Or all the time.”

Again, that mouth. I glare at him. “And what expectations might that impose on me, exactly?”

“Only that you grace me with your adorable little pouts more often,” he says, tapping a finger to my nose. “I admit they are a weakness. You scowl so beautifully.”

I sit up, bringing the sheets with me. “What a charming tongue you have, Majesty. I wonder: Do you recycle your lines often?”

“My tongue is dedicated solely to you, for as long as you want it.”

“Sometimes I hate you,” I say, resisting the itch to whack him with a pillow.

“Ah, but hate and love are two sides of the same blade. They share the same passion, besides.”

My fingers do reach for the pillow at that, but he places a hand on mine before I can grab it, his expression shifting into something softer, more somber.

“Vasalie, I want to apologize. For what I did at the brothel to try to hide you . . .” He trails off, a soft, creeping pink painting the apples of his cheeks.

I can’t help my amusement.

Anton Orvere, the famed King of the East, is nervous?

He clears his throat at my silence. “While I realize we had little choice, I may have lost control, and I didn’t mean to take advantage of you, which, of course, I did. Inadvertently.”

The man with the Glory Court is apologizing for a mere kiss ?

Yet it wasn’t a mere kiss, was it? The way his mouth played with mine, the way he wove his fingers through my own—

He says he lost control. He is not the only one.

Then that last kiss, the one he gave me even after the door had clicked shut . . .

“Please accept my apology.”

The look on his face is so endearing that I begin to laugh.

He arches a thick, manicured brow. “You are laughing at me. I cannot believe you are laughing at me.” A grin peeks from his lips then. “I rescind my apology, considering you quite enjoyed it yourself.”

“Shaping the tale to your liking, I see.”

“Your little moans spoke volumes as to your level of enjoyment, Minnow.”

A flush blazes up the back of my neck. “You could use a dose of humility, Sire.”

“Why would I dose myself with that ? Sounds terrible.”

I can’t help the laugh that spills out next. But then he takes my chin with his fingers. “Your laugh,” he breathes. “I could drink an ocean’s worth.”

That draws me up short.

He watches me through the fringe of his lashes, his thumb tracing my bottom lip—softly, like he wants to capture my smile.

Pocket it. Like it’s fragile and rare, and he can’t believe it belongs to him.

And in this moment, the horrors of this place fade away, and so does the pain, and I can breathe. Fully and completely.

I feel like a thousand tiny stars, bursting and shimmering all over.

But I have felt this way before.

I soaked in Illian’s adoration, his praise. He made me feel more valuable than the crown gracing his head. He kept me on a string, dangled his promises on a hook.

Anton mistakes the change in my demeanor for worry. “Just a little more time, and this will all end. I promise.”

Just a little more.

I will give you more.

I promise, I promise.

I don’t want to compare Anton with Illian, but how could I ever be sure of his intentions? While I trust that he won’t hurt me, or touch me unless I wish it, I am here because he needs me, in the end.

He plays a wonderfully convincing hero—an act I am starting to believe, admittedly. But how can I trust that he’s a better man when, upon his coronation, he established that Fates-forsaken court?

He notices the change in my demeanor, his smile fading.

“Your Glory Court,” I whisper.

His brows furrow. “Oh, Vasalie, it isn’t what you—”

A knock interrupts him, two raps in quick succession. Anton slides from the bed and, before I can so much as hide under the covers, says, “Yes, Basile?”

I squeak and bury myself under the duvet, but all that comes is a deep, “Your Majesty, the breakfast bell has rung. I’ve brought the clothes you requested.”

“Thank you, Basile. We will leave right away. Vasalie, my dear, you can come up for air. Basile is the captain of my personal guard. He is not only sworn to secrecy but is fully aware of who you are and why you are here. I informed him last night.”

Humiliation colors my cheeks as I peek above the covers. Anton tosses me a cloak. “Wear this. You can’t be seen in the same dress you wore in the Sky Garden in the unlikely case someone notices you this morning.”

Hesitantly, I take it, arranging it around my shoulders before sliding from bed.

To my further embarrassment, Basile—a broad man with rich brown skin and a mane of thick curls sectioned into several braids—stands in the doorway, blank-faced, unmoving.

He’s plated in sea-glass armor and pads of leather, looking as bedecked as his king usually does.

At least he isn’t looking at me. “Sire, I recommend that you put on actual pants.”

“Thank you, I was getting to that,” Anton says, snatching a nearby set of trousers. He’s wearing a set of loose drawers that indeed cut well above his knees.

“It’s only that I have to remind you often, Sire.”

“I am sorry that my thighs offend you, Basile.”

“Sire, after eight years in your employ, nothing offends me.”

Anton sends me a coy grin. “See? Dead inside.”

“That would be your fault, Majesty,” Basile retorts.

“Indeed. However, my astounding supply of charisma resurrects you on the daily. Does it not?”

“If by charisma you mean chaos, then yes, I am revived daily.”

“Stop stealing all the good lines,” Anton mutters, buttoning his tunic.

Despite myself, I can’t help a small smile. Anton adores Basile, and it shows. And the affection seems to be mutual.

After donning a vest, Anton ushers me from the room, instructing me on which path to take while he arranges a disaster involving the delivery of my millen and a small-scale fire, which will inevitably draw most of the staff out into the halls while I slip from the cellar.

But as I reach the pane of glass leading into the tunnels, Anton calls my name. I swivel as he advances, and he takes my hands in his. “Promise me you will not act on what you saw last night. Do not move against your father or Illian yet.”

It is a wise move, making me promise. The temptation to end this now is all too great. Yes, Maksim Stova deserves torture, shackles, the dark, endless grip of a cell, but he also deserves death, and I want to give it to him.

I clench the folds of the cloak.

“Promise me,” he urges. “We will bring him a fate worse than Morta’s revenge. Your life is not worth risking only to bring your father a few seconds of pain he’ll scarcely feel.”

For that, I finally agree. And I cling to that promise even as I leave his rooms and traverse the tunnels. Yet even as I do, I find myself replaying the night’s events. The morning’s, too, in an endless loop. I practice my breathing as I take it all in, and then I realize something else.

Anton promised me he would unearth my secrets.

Now he has them—every last one.

It’s unsettling. Frightening.

But in a way, it’s also freeing.