Page 72 of Grim and Oro (Lightlark)

But this is to protect her. To protect us. To protect everyone .

I match the other rulers, hoping, praying, this is enough. Changing the matches. Isla will be furious, but her secret is safe. Perhaps I don’t have to share it.

But then, Cleo says, “Are you really sure, King? I have to admit, I’m suspicious ... This isn’t just a strategy between you and the Wildling, is it?”

That’s exactly what this is, but the Wildling in question doesn’t know it.

The remaining places are on Moon Isle. I will need Cleo’s access to look.

That’s why I changed the matches, why I dropped Isla.

But Cleo is no fool—and I can hardly guess at her own plans and intentions.

She has been building a fleet for centuries.

She wasn’t even at the last Centennial. She is prepared to betray us all.

I have to make her believe we are on the same side—

Against the Wildling.

I anticipated her reluctance. Her suspicion. Which is why I smile, forcing myself to look pleased. Here it goes.

“I’ll let you in on a secret that might explain my decision,” I say, my voice light. Casual. Cold. Heartless . Then I look at Isla and feel something in my chest fracture at wide eyes staring back at me. It still doesn’t stop me. “Isla Crown doesn’t have powers.”

The world goes quiet. Time slows. I watch Isla, unable to look away, waiting for the fire in her to rage.

But she doesn’t look angry.

No—she looks hurt.

And that, I think, is so much worse.

Cleo steps forward. This is a mistake , I think. The Moonling is going to try to kill her, here and now, and I am going to have to step between them, ending all pretenses that I am working against Isla.

But I don’t have to. Grim grabs Isla’s hand, and then they’re gone.

I hate myself.

Worse, she hates me.

Good. This is good, I think. Her hatred will make this all convincing. The rulers erupted in chaos when Grim turned them both invisible and left the room. Of course, now everyone believes they are working together. They likely are, now, thanks to me.

She has lied to me countless times. Still, I hate myself for causing her any ounce of pain.

Enya told me to forget my morals. To do anything necessary to finally break these curses. I did.

So why does it feel like I, myself, am breaking?

My plan is working. Little by little, Cleo is beginning to trust me. If I ask too soon, she’ll be suspicious, but I’m close to suggesting we look for the heart of Lightlark in the maze only she, as ruler, can access.

I know this is what I need to do to find the heart. I know it .

But I can’t get the look on Isla’s face out of my head.

In the weeks after the betrayal, I continue to dream of her, as if my own mind is working against me. I dream of those eyes. Of that sea.

Of us , together in a way we never can be.

I talk to her in these dreams all the time now.

They’re so real, it’s as if they’re true. And they’re always on that beach.

We’re lying on our backs this time, staring up at the stars. I hear her shift beside me and turn. She’s even more magnificent than the night sky. Than anything, really.

Her head is against the sand as she stares at me. There’s a light in her eyes. One of curiosity.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Why do you like this place so much?” she asks. She must wonder why this is always where I take us in my dreams.

I reach a hand toward her, my fingers smoothing across her cheek, brushing sand away. She lets me. She leans into my touch, eyes fluttering closed.

“Before? Because it calmed me. Now?” Her eyes slowly blink open. I smile, and it feels like marble rippling, like ice melting, something cold and hard finally giving way to warmth. “Because it reminds me of you.”

She smiles back, and that smile—I would give anything to make it last. But it doesn’t. No ... her amusement turns into something different. Something that makes my throat feel tight.

Her eyes darken, slightly. Her lips part. Slowly, very slowly, she reaches toward me too, until her fingertips brush my lips.

I’m not breathing. Not as her thumb parts my mouth. Not as her hand moves to the back of my neck, curling, using me to pull herself closer.

Not until she’s right in front of me, on her side, and then I breathe her in.

I breathe in her floral scent, I watch as she studies me up and down, and I study her too.

Thoroughly. She’s wearing that dress from the first day of the Centennial, the green one, the one the color of her eyes, the color of this sea, the color of all my damned thoughts and dreams, and a wave crashes, reaching us, soaking us both, tightening that dress to her body, but she doesn’t seem to mind the water. Neither do I.

Her fingers thread through my hair, and then her lips are on mine.

I can’t possibly know what she tastes like, but in this dream, she tastes like berries.

She tastes like a fruit I want to devour.

I part her lips with my tongue, and she groans as I stroke hers with mine, in long, languid motions.

Not enough. Not nearly enough. I cup the back of her head, as if I could taste more of her. But still—I need her closer.

My other hand goes to her waist, and I pull her body onto mine, just as the sea crashes again.

Waves wash over us both, we’re both wet and dripping, but we don’t care.

She presses her body against mine, the wet fabric hiding little, and that body .

I’ve studied it far too closely. Imagined it far too many times, late at night.

I keep my hand on the back of her head, but she takes it, and drags it down, over her chest—that fucking chest—and I practically tremble with want.

I want to peel this fabric off her. I want to touch her warm skin, I want to lick her dry, I want to have her right against this sand, right in these waves.

Her hips are lined with mine. She sits up, straddling me, feeling all of me, and I stare, fucking stare , at how perfect she looks.

Gaze never leaving mine, she slowly slides one of the straps of her dress off her shoulder. Then, the other. The fabric folds, still partially clinging to her wet skin. She leans forward, and every inch toward me sends her dress sliding down, revealing more of her.

I feel like I’m dying. I feel like I’m being brought to life.

Her hands claw at my chest, but before she can fully remove my shirt, her perfect lips form a wicked smile. She leans down fully, slowly, caging me in, as if she knows exactly how much power she wields over me.

“You want me?” she asks.

Fuck yes . I nod.

At that, she leans closer, nails still digging into my skin, hard enough to draw blood. But I don’t care. I don’t care at all.

“I’m your enemy,” she says, her hot breath against my lips. “Remember?”

I nod. I remember.

“Say it.”

“You’re my enemy,” I repeat. I’ll do whatever she wants.

She smiles, as if the words please her. “You hate me,” she whispers into my ear in that melodious voice, before her lips smooth down my neck. Her tongue laves at my racing pulse. Her hips start to rock against mine.

Fuck .

At my silence, she stops. Looks up at me through her lashes.

“I hate you,” I repeat, mindless, stuck between reality and dream, between duty and truth.

She smiles against my neck. Kisses her way up until her face is right over mine.

She tilts her head. Her long, beautiful hair is wet and clinging to her chest, barely keeping her decent.

Her dress is now rolled all the way down to her hips.

She leans down, and I need to taste her. All of her. I need her like a drug.

Her lips are almost against mine again.

“Liar,” she says, right against my mouth.

And then, I wake up.