Page 5 of Cruelest Kiss and Fairest Blood (Tales So Wicked #2)

“Would you like a cinnamon scone?” my mother offers. Her smile is light but worry creases her brow. “Or perhaps an apple tart? The chef took great care this morning to?—”

“Just get it over with, Mother.” I set my cup down, folding my arms in anticipation of the anvil.

She frowns at my interruption. I can hear my etiquette instructor now.

“ A princess never interrupts. She waits with grace and bated breath until it is her turn to speak .” Lessons with that old ninny are true torment.

“Very well, dearest.” She sets her own cup down and folds her hands across her lap, fidgeting with her pale, beaded skirts. “As you know, I am unable to bear more children.”

That comment punches me right in the gut.

There were complications with my birth. Doctors told my father that another pregnancy would bring with it an elevated risk of death for my mother.

While the King of Roseheart may rule with an iron fist, he loves his queen.

He vowed to never force a second child upon her, for her loss would be too great to suffer.

Still, my mother desired another child. The pressures put upon a queen to bear a male heir are high.

My birth must have damaged her far more than was originally thought.

She never conceived again. They accepted their fate and have spent all these years spoiling me, their only, beloved daughter.

I nod.

“Your father and I… It is, well, it always has been and always will be the duty of the king and queen.” She pauses, breathing deeply. A lump the size of a pinecone swells in my throat. “As you know, there is no male heir to take the throne upon your father’s passing.”

“And heaven forbid a woman sit the throne in his stead,” I grumble. Why are we even having this conversation? Father is alive and well.

My mother ignores the comment. “This means other arrangements must be made to secure the throne of Roseheart. The duty has now fallen on the shoulders of another.” The next sassy comment sitting ripe on the tip of my tongue shrivels back.

My heart beats faster than the storm of sleet that patters the glassy dome above. I know where this is going.

On my eighteenth birthday, I was promised to a wealthy king from a faraway land.

He was nothing special. Dark eyes that lingered too long and the scent of spiced wine always upon his breath.

He was an unusually young king. The throne was passed to him early, denying him the years of wisdom and experience most gain before taking their crowns.

Negotiations turned sour, and in the end, the agreement was broken.

I’ve never been given the exact details.

There were rumors of invasions soon after, of that king conquering distant lands.

His death was mentioned but never confirmed.

The scandal left a bad taste in my father’s mouth and saved me from being betrothed again those next few years. My marital offers were more closely scrutinized after that. None met his expectations. Until now… apparently.

Any second she’s going to speak the name of some young, dopey prince who has been chosen as my suitor for life. I swear if it’s the nitwit prince from that pumped-up farming kingdom on the southern tip of the continent, I’ll scream.

My mother takes another sip of tea, steadying herself. “As you know, the King of Honenbrie recently lost his wife.”

A not-so-subtle gasp escapes past my lips. “Mother, you can’t be serious.”

“Come now, Lenore. He is a kind and fair man.”

“He is the same age as Father!” Ebenest Hoff, the King of Honenbrie, has been my father’s closest friend for as long as I can remember. “I cannot be expected to marry someone so old. Honestly, Mother. He has children my age!” Suddenly that idiot farmer prince is looking more appealing.

“Yes, he does. King Hoff has eleven children, nine of whom are boys. Which means he has plenty of heirs. But since your father and I have not and will not produce a boy…” She drops her eyes to the rose-flavored macarons stacked high on a plate below her. “It will be up to you.”

My mouth is sticky. “Me?”

“King Hoff has agreed that if you marry, your firstborn son will be allowed to ascend the throne of Roseheart.”

I’m grateful nothing but tea has passed my lips, for it would surely come tumbling up my throat and back onto the table. “Bear his children?”

My mother nods. “As soon as possible. An heir must be conceived to ensure our family’s legacy remains intact.”

An image of King Hoff lifting me high in the air as I giggle wildly swims to the surface of my memories. My nausea grows. More than half of his children are older than I am. To have to share a bed with him…

“Oh, my love.” Mother reaches over the plates of food in a manner that is quite frankly unbefitting of a queen.

Her hand is warm as it grasps mine. “Being born into royalty offers us so many wonderful experiences. We wear the finest gowns, eat the most luxurious of foods, and are waited on at every moment of the day. There are a few important things that are expected of us in return.”

“Like our freedom?” I don’t try to hide my bitter tone. Her fingers stroke mine.

“You are not a bird in a cage, Lenore. You are a flower in a garden. A beautiful garden that is tended to day and night.”

“A garden with great stony walls.” I pull my hand away from hers, setting it in my lap and gripping my skirts, wishing I could rip the fabric to ease my frustration.

“If that is how you wish to see it.” She leans back in her seat, sadness passing across her regal gaze. “You have the choice to grow or wither within those walls. A beauty like yours must seek the sun.”

“I prefer the night.” I’m being childish. I know that. But the idea of my chances at a fairytale romance being snatched away so soon has leeched the regality and poise from me.

Arranged marriages are expected among royalty.

Still, I dreamed of a match that stopped my marriage protests, stunning me into silence when a beautiful, kind prince was thrust into my path.

How lucky you are to have found such a match , people would say.

It is true love, no doubt , they would croon.

Instead, the people will nod. A sensible match.

So wise of her father to arrange such an advantageous marriage.

They’ll pity me. I know they will. I can already see the sullen nods as I drag my feet down the garishly ornate aisle. Hear the apologetic whispers as my head hangs low, heavy from the weight of my wedding veil and stolen future.

“ Poor dear .”

“ She’s so young .”

“ As old as her father. ”

“He will protect you.” Her gaze shifts to my neck. She doesn’t need to say more. I know what she’s thinking. The collar instantly feels too hot against my throat.

“I prefer freedom over protection.” I scrape my index finger against my thumb, loosening a piece of skin on the corner of the nail bed.

Using the edge of my nail, I pick at it, over and over until I feel the familiar sting of the layer peeling too deep.

I bring my thumb to my mouth, biting at the skin, pulling until it tears off. Blood wells around my cuticle.

“Lenore. Stop that.” She brings those graceful fingers to her forehead, gently rubbing her brow. “This is a good match for you. Ebenest is patient and wise. His kingdom is said to be beautiful in the summer.”

My head snaps up. “I have to leave home?” It’s a silly question.

Why would I marry and remain in my childhood castle?

Still, it all feels so soon, despite the fact that many girls in my position are forced to marry as young as fourteen.

Making it to twenty-two unwed is unheard of.

I should be grateful no one has written me off as a spinster yet. Should be. I’m not. I want my freedom.

I want to run through the forest and sleep naked under the stars.

I want to disappear to a cottage in the woods, seeing not a human soul for months, enjoying the company of the animals and trees.

I want to gorge myself on wild berries until my fingers and face are stained purple and pink.

I want to kiss the most beautiful, breath-stealing lips.

Hiding beneath the rose trellis while the summer rain pours from above.

I want so much more than a princess is allowed.

“You will make Honenbrie your home, as I have made Roseheart mine.” My mother makes everything sound so simple.

“How long do I have?”

“It will take time to deliver the announcements to the other kingdoms. We anticipate all parties will be able to come together to celebrate your engagement by the spring equinox.”

My nausea intensifies. “That’s less than two months away.”

“It will be a joyous celebration.” She places a scone on her plate. “Come now, dearest. Have a bit of breakfast before your lessons.”

“My lessons—I’ll be late. Excuse me.” I rise, turning sharply, my skirts swishing behind me.

“Lenore,” my mother calls out. “You know this is what is expected of a princess. Lenore .”

I’m worried my veins aren’t large enough to channel the copious amounts of rage that are flowing through my bloodstream.

A childhood spent being quiet. Training for my adulthood of remaining silent.

What if I don’t want to share the opinions of others?

How infuriating it is to bite my tongue and swallow back my opinions out of fear of offending. Offending!

Because once an opinion is formed, there’s no undoing it.

And the opinions of others seem to be all that matters these days.

I want to vomit all over them and their opinions.

What am I? A doll? Pristine, poised, perfectly amenable.

I want to peel back my perfectly pristine porcelain doll lips, bare my teeth, and use them to rip the vocal cords out of everyone who’s ever caused me the slightest bit of irritation.

Others avert their gazes as I stomp down the hallways.

Days spent gossiping and tearing people down.

What a waste. There’s nothing better in their lives, surely no love in their marriages nor warmth in their beds if all their energy is spent talking about the perceived flaws of others.

Honestly, I’m surprised there’s not a shortage of ladders in the kingdom from all the high horses everyone has been riding these days.

Even now, I see the sneers planted atop powdered faces as they watch my abruptness and lack of grace. They so enjoy flaunting my flaws. How charming of them to be so flawless.

“Lenore?” My father’s voice stops me as I round the corner.

“Father.” I give a polite curtsy.

“I thought you were having tea with your mother. I was coming to join you.” My father is dressed in ornate attire of silver and ivory.

Every day he matches my mother. She doesn’t match him.

He doesn’t choose an outfit and then she follows; my mother chooses her wardrobe, and my father always makes sure they match.

It’s one of the many romantic things about their relationship.

A relationship that couldn’t be more different from the one I’ll have.

“Tea was cut short. I have lessons.”

My father’s sigh is filled with weight. “She told you about the betrothal?”

A steady burning starts up where my thumb scrapes against the cuticle on my index finger. “She did.”

“This is a good match. He is a wise man.” I fake a gag. He is a grandpa . My father’s scowl has me feeling like I’m ten instead of twenty-two. I rarely take this tone with him. He caught me in the middle of a tantrum. “It is your duty.”

“Yeah, yeah, I already got the honor and duty spiel from Mom. I’m sure she’ll enjoy your company but as I said”—I curtsy once more—“I have lessons. Excuse me.”

My father doesn’t call after me. It’s not a coincidence that he wasn’t there when she told me. He probably didn’t want to be present for the hard part. Making my mom deliver the news that he knew would shock me to my core. Men are such arrogant, useless babies.

I storm away, hurrying down the halls and passing right by the room that’s usually used for my etiquette lessons. What I need right now is to cut something down.