Page 11

Chapter eleven

T he dream disintegrates around me, falling away in tatters as I jolt awake and sit up in the enormous bed. The all too familiar surroundings of Llywelyn’s bedchamber in the middle of the night, settle around me.

Beside me, Llywelyn whimpers in his sleep.

Groaning, I run my hands over my face. Does this asshole never sleep through the night? Must he torment me twenty-four hours a day?

He murmurs something and rolls over.

The question is, do I wake him so I can go back to sleep, or do I let him suffer? The man just murdered someone in cold blood, as well as pissing me off by seducing me for a cold-hearted fuck. So heaven knows he deserves a bit of torment.

“It hurts!” groans Llywelyn. “Please. No. Please stop.”

My jaw clenches and my stomach tries to squirm in sympathy, but it is just a dream, it won’t hurt him. And even if it does, he has more than earned a punishment.

“Iestyn, please! Iestyn!”

Llywelyn’s voice is more of an animalistic shriek than words. The sound rings out, full of terror and a terrible hopelessness.

My heart beats hard against my ribcage. It doesn’t know the threat isn’t real. It thinks the person next to me is being tortured in real time and that I might be next. Fuck this.

“Wake up!”

Another shriek. This time with no words at all. Just mindless fear .

I grab Llywelyn’s shoulders and shake him. “Wake up!”

Golden eyes snap open, hazy and unfocussed. “Iestyn!” he wails.

I roll away from him, switch on the bedside lamp, and then turn back to the prince. His eyes are wide and glassy and he is covered in a cold sweat. I don’t think he is seeing me at all.

Unless he is scared shitless of me and usually hides it incredibly well. I frown. That’s a ridiculous idea. Why would he be scared of me?

“Llywelyn?” I try.

He blinks, but he is still not with it. He is breathing far too fast and his complexion is paler than moonlight. Shit, did some of the poison get to him? Did it seep into his bloodstream through his skin? Or was there another, more successful attempt?

“Llywelyn!” I try again, this time with a little shake.

His head jerks with my motions, and he blinks again. This time his eyes focus and seem a little clearer. A little less lost.

“Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?” I ask.

He licks his bottom lip and shakes his head.

“It was just a bad dream,” I say, though I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself.

He draws in a shuddering breath and his entire body starts to tremble. Shivering as if he is lost in a snowstorm.

I could quiz him about his dream. I am certainly curious about who Iestyn is. However, I’m pretty certain Llywelyn has no idea he cried that name out loud, let alone that I heard it. So keeping that card close to my chest for now, in case I want to use it later, is a good tactical decision.

I stare down at the shaking, wide-eyed prince and resign myself to my fate. Despite the accusations, I am not a ruthless psycho. Questions can wait. For tactical reasons, as well as kind ones.

With a sigh, I lie down beside him and pull him close. I can keep him warm if nothing else. I’m not that much of a bastard.

I hold him tightly and let my body heat seep into him. Llywelyn is stiff in my arms. Unsure and still trembling. It feels like he is tolerating my touch in defeated bewilderment rather than getting any comfort from it. It reminds me of when I used to volunteer at Battersea Dogs Home and stroke the rescue dogs, the ones who had never known a kind touch. They had been stiff, cautious and unsure like this. Frightened, but clearly experiencing their instincts telling them that touch should be a good thing.

I bite back my sigh. Llywelyn isn’t a shelter dog. It’s simply that I am a rubbish person to comfort him. We barely know each other and we are not exactly on good terms.

“Is there anyone I can get for you?” I ask.

“No,” he answers in a tiny voice.

I don’t believe that. Everybody has someone. Well, I don’t, but that’s beside the point. The point is, resyn or not, he is a prince. A young man who lives at court. He has grown up surrounded by hordes of people. He has to have friends.

“A friend?” I prompt. I guess family is not an option because that all appears to be a complicated, tangled mess. “Lover?” I add as a suggestion.

Though if he had a lover, I’d like to think he wouldn’t whine so much about needing to get off. And thinking about it, I haven’t seen a soul in Llywelyn’s rooms since I arrived here. Just Tae, myself and his brothers. No friends or lovers, but that might just mean he is keeping them away from me.

“No,” he repeats.

His breathing seems calmer now, and he isn’t shaking quite so much.

He sniffs. “I had a lover once, many years ago.”

A small smile of relief tugs at my lips. That’s more like it. He is clearly starting to feel better now and is trying to backtrack on letting slip that he is a sad loser.

“Many years ago?” I tease. “You’re not that old.”

Actually, I have no idea how old he is. He could be over a thousand, for all I know. But he is definitely still young and stupid. There is no doubt about it. I can feel that in my bones. Llywelyn is young for a fey and that is all that matters.

He bristles in my arms, and I want to chuckle. He is definitely feeling better.

“He saw I was mature for my age,” Llywelyn says in a haughty tone.

Wait. What the fuck did he just say? I repeat the words in my head and my blood runs cold. Well, if that doesn’t fucking ring all the alarm bells and raise every red flag.

“Did he now. Let me guess, he was much older than you and you were very young?” I say.

Llywelyn sniffs. “I wasn’t too young to have a lover!”

I take a slow, deep breath. I need to tread carefully, very carefully. He is about to clam up and I want to check my horrifying theory before his nightmare-loosened tongue tightens back up.

“Did everyone see it that way?” I say ever so carefully. Keeping my tone light, casual and not at all disapproving.

Llywelyn relaxes a little in my embrace as tension leaves his shoulders. “No one knew,” he murmurs. “It was our secret.”

Oh, my fucking god. I feel like I’ve just swallowed a gallon of ice, and now it is lying cold and unyielding in my gut. Well, that’s my theory confirmed. Shit. Llywelyn is still an asshole, but wow, he has every reason to be.

“I loved him,” he says sleepily. “With all my heart and soul. I will never love another.”

Ouch. That feels like a stab to the heart. A really painful one. What the hell is wrong with me? Yes, it is sad that Llywelyn is declaring he can never love again, and that he is not at all free from the emotional clutches of his abuser. But I don’t understand why I have reacted so viscerally?

“That’s a bit dramatic,” I say, and it sounds like a sulky huff.

Llywelyn lets out a world-weary sigh. “It is the truth. ”

He falls asleep in my arms and I don’t move a muscle for fear of waking him. Because of selfish reasons, of course. I’m much more likely to finally get some sleep if he stays settled. I’m not altruistic.

Though it wouldn’t be outrageous to give Llywelyn a bit of kindness. Poor kid. Just thinking about it is making me feel sick. I can’t fucking stand abusers. They boil my blood. It is disappointing to learn the fey have perverts, but not at all surprising. They are similar to humans in lots of other aspects. It’s almost fitting that they share our darkest traits.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, memories from much earlier in the night come rushing back. Images replaying in full glorious colour. Every tiny detail, vivid and vibrant.

The look in Llywelyn’s eyes as he said, “I don’t want you to be mad at me anymore.”

The slow, purposeful way he spread his legs.

The way he seemed to endure the sex rather than enjoy it.

I swallow tightly. Oh fucking hell.

Once again, I see the slow slide of his pale legs over the white sheets as he spread wide for me. I’m such a fucking idiot. The nuance was there all along, plain to see. How could I have missed it?

That wasn’t invitation. That was submission.

And not the healthy, kinky kind. The, ‘this is all I’m worth,’ and, ‘this is the only thing people want from me,’ kind of submission. The, ‘this is the only way I know how to appease angry men,’ kind of surrender.

Holy crap.

I need to peel my skin off and burn it. I need to cut off my cock. I need to cleanse myself of my own evil, twisted darkness, and somehow atone for my sins.

Llywelyn is not the monster.

It’s me. I’m the monster.