Page 22 of Cruelest Kiss and Fairest Blood (Tales So Wicked #2)

Lenore

M y large dress is just one in a sea of illustrious gowns.

That, combined with my petite stature, allows me to move through the guests without drawing too much attention.

Once free from the throng of partygoers, I stick to the shadowy edges of the wall.

If I’m spotted leaving unchaperoned, Mother will surely send a guard detail for me.

I rise on my tiptoes, my tight shoes suffocating my feet further with the action.

I’m just able to make out the back of Harrow’s pale blond head as he disappears into an unlit corridor.

I reach the same exit. There are no sentries. Did they forget to station guards at this post? Was this Harrow’s doing? I don’t stop to ponder the hows or whys. The sounds of frivolity soften behind me as I pad quietly down the darkened hallway.

“It is not often I encounter another who bears a curse.” A deep, growly voice has me whipping around. The soft glow of cerulean eyes greets me in the darkness. The golden-haired King of Montrésor steps forward. His movements are preternaturally quiet for so large a person. It reminds me of Harrow.

He cocks his head, the movement more animal-like than man. “Or is it a gift?” he muses. “They do love cryptic sonnets. I suppose all curses are a gift in their own way. Each one is meant to teach us something, by way of the cost.” The king raises a massive hand to stroke the rose on his lapel.

I swallow, my heart pounding in my ears. The flower unfurls at his touch, opening more fully. A single petals floats to the floor.

“The cost is high, is it not?” His question burrows into the hidden place in me where my darkest past resides.

Flashes of the dark-furred monster play across my mind’s eye. My voice quivers, “I don’t know what you mean.”

The king’s eyes soften. “You need not fear me, Princess. I am but a stranger with a shared soul. The both of us roam above but keep one foot in another world. I sensed the magic within you the moment I stepped foot in the castle. You speak the language of secrets. As do I.”

My stomach tenses as if clutched by a mighty fist. “And what are your intentions with my secrets?” I murmur.

He smiles, and there’s a warmth there that comforts me despite the pointed canines lending him a sinister air. “To keep them. As you are now a keeper of mine. I simply wished?—”

Tingles race down the back of my neck, alerting me to Harrow’s presence before the king’s glowing eyes even flick over my shoulder.

“You’re a long way from your rose gardens, Renard.” Harrow’s smooth words send a flood of soothing energy through my adrenaline-jacked bloodstream.

“You.” The word comes out on a growl that makes me flinch. The king’s face grows taut.

Harrow places a hand on my shoulder and my body relaxes. He is the ultimate danger, and at the same time, absolute safety. How can he command both so fully? “Be careful, Your Highness. Your beast is showing.”

The play on words reminds me of the animal in my vision. The king stiffens, paw-like fists curling at his sides. “The number of times I petitioned you, begged you for death, for release throughout my years of torment.” The king, Renard, snarls. Snarls!

He is the beast from my visions .

“I lost count. In the thousands, at least,” Harrow answers, and I can almost hear the smirk I know must be curved along the high arch of his cheek. Does this man truly believe Harrow to be Death? No matter how many times he tells me that’s who he is, I just can’t wrap my head around it.

“Renard?” a soft, feminine voice calls from the entrance to the hall.

Renard visibly softens at the sound. “Down here, ma petite fleur .”

“Ah, your rose approaches,” Harrow muses. “All those days spent wishing for me to end your cursed life. Aren’t you glad I didn’t answer your prayers?”

Renard doesn’t answer for a long moment, his loving gaze locked on the woman as she moves toward us.

Finally, he says to Harrow, “It would appear I am indebted to you for denying me such a foolish wish.”

“I may hold you to that.” Harrow’s power ebbs across the space between the two men, charging the air.

“I am in need of you, my love.” Joining us, the woman takes Renard’s outstretched hand.

“Gabriel is trying to arm wrestle some Viscount de Chantin . You know as well as I that anyone foolish enough to challenge Gabriel will end up a broken—” Her words halt when she spots Harrow.

I haven’t looked behind me. Is he still wearing his silver skull mask? Or can she see his pale, ethereal face?

Trepidation widens her green eyes. I understand her feelings all too well.

The king lifts a brow. “Can you see him?”

“Yes. Though I have the strange feeling I shouldn’t be able to.”

Harrow speaks again. “Renard’s magic has rubbed off on you. Or in you. Recently, too. It’s something that only lasts temporarily in mortals. Did you enjoy your carriage ride here?” Harrow teases.

Even in this darkened hallway, the woman’s cheeks visibly redden.

Renard hooks an arm around her waist and tugs her close. “That’s enough questions. Our better half is in need of us. It’s been a pleasure, Princess.” He nods once to me, and then to Harrow. “Until we meet again.” He turns, taking the woman with him.

“ Who was that ?” I hear her whisper to Renard as they make their way back to the ballroom.

“ An old friend …”

“That was a weird interaction,” I say, watching them. “Do you know what he said to me?” I turn toward Harrow, only to find the corridor empty. Damn him and his vanishing. He hasn’t left the castle though. I feel him here.

The hallway is eerily silent as I move farther down it. The first set of double doors I come upon are slightly ajar. The castle remains under strict lock and key when celebrations are at hand. Which means this room is not open by accident.

The stuttering creak of rusty hinges makes me turn over my shoulder to make sure I haven’t been heard. When I’m certain no one is following me, I duck inside and close the doors behind me. The smell of dust and forgotten furniture fills the space.

I’m in one of the smaller, unused ballrooms. Castles are so absurdly large that I doubt even a third of the rooms ever find purpose. My eyes are slow to adjust to the darkness. If only I had brought a torch with me.

The cloudy sky outside parts, spilling moonlight through the towering windows. I scan the room, seeking.

“Boo.” Harrow’s voice comes from just behind me.

A squeak of surprise slips out as I whirl. My memories never paint Harrow as tall as he is. His height takes me by surprise every time we stand this close.

His mask is more intricate than I realized. The solid silver is actually broken up by diamonds around the eye and nose holes and tiny bones that run all along the outer edge.

The bones call to me. Lifting my fingers, I trace them along each small piece.

“Want me to leave it in your garden of bones after the night’s frivolities have concluded?”

I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or being serious. “You don’t think my secret hiding place is… odd?”

He chuckles. “It is definitely odd. I’d manage a guess that other mortals don’t understand you.”

I huff a laugh. “Very true.”

“Their loss. I find your strangeness to be the most enticing thing about you.”

His energy presses in around me and I’m reminded of just how different he and Cassius are.

Cassius lights me up. He’s kindling, feeding into my own embers, igniting my fire so it’s always flickering more fiercely than before. Warm and warmer. We fit, coexisting in laughter and light.

But Harrow. He’s ice in my veins, chilling me to the bone, isolating the heat in my blood like it’s a rarity, a commodity not to be taken lightly.

His chill forces me to burn brighter, hotter, setting my soul aflame, reminding me that I’m alive.

He draws my flames out, making me crave the ice, making me want to follow him down into the darkness. He’s shadow and snow.

“Were you looking for someone before?” He cocks his head, shifting his pale blond hair so that it falls over one eye.

“I was looking for you.” My voice is a whisper.

Harrow’s eyes narrow. “Ah, but you looked so preoccupied at the party. Dancing between walls lined with silver platters. If it were my kingdom, they’d be topped with heads not pheasants.

Including the head of your little Cassius .

How joyous you looked, eyes bright, lost in the arms of your mortal prince. I don’t think you missed me at all.”

Is he… jealous? The idea sends a thrill racing through my center. “Well, that mortal prince had the balls enough to ask me to dance.”

“To ask your future husband if you had permission to dance, you mean. The King of Honenbrie . As if he already owns you just by claiming your hand.”

My cheeks heat. “He doesn’t…” I trail off. He doesn’t what? Own me? I know as well as anyone the moment he was promised my hand I became his property. I straighten, chin raised high. “He may think that, but he doesn’t own me. No one owns me.”

Harrow grins. “I quite agree. Which is why I will do him no such courtesy.” His hand lands on my waist, pulling me against him. The other snakes his fingers between mine. His touch is cold. As cold as I remember it. But his skin is velvety beneath my fingers.

“There’s no music,” I breathe.

“Are you sure?” And just like that, I hear it. A haunting tune playing softly from somewhere nearby. No, from within my own mind. Eerie but lovely, with tragedy woven into each note. Bows pull across violins and fingertips dance atop harps. The music causes a visceral reaction within me.

A clumsily stitched seam opens within my heart.

There’s a sharp stinging beneath my ribs.

Is that where such devastating notes flow from?

Somehow, Harrow has stolen away my sadness and spun it into a beautiful song.

The music tugs at my chest, reminding me of days spent hidden in my garden, alone with my bones, mourning loss and honoring life.