Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 156210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 781(@200wpm)___ 625(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 781(@200wpm)___ 625(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
“Come, Luke,” Tristan says and urges my promised closer, eying me as though I’m a rabid wolf.
“D-don’t do anything rash,” Luke whispers, and seeing him pull away from me feels like opening a wound, but he will be as safe as he can be with Tristan.
I lift my hand, wondering if this isn’t the last time I’m allowed to see him, but I keep all my desperate words in, because he deserves as much peace of mind as he can get.
I’ve only ever wanted to make him smile, but now here he is, with kohl streaking his face. The finery he was so excited to celebrate in is a mockery of our end. One of his sleeves is ripped, his tiara is askew, all because I wasn’t smarter in handling the court wars I warned him about.
As Tristan leads my beautiful promised away, Luke keeps glancing back over his shoulder with eyes like two warm summer lakes. Does he resent me? Does he pity me? I cannot know.
I ignore the jeers flying my way, too worried about the threat radiating from all sides now that my powers have been taken away by the heavy collar. I try to remember Luke the way he was before the doomed duel, in case that is all I have left.
How he fed me fries, not caring about the rules of propriety and elegance. How he let me lead when we danced. How he whispered into my ear that he can’t wait to promise me a forever.
Chapter 41
Kyran
The sudden storm is the Realm’s answer to the melancholic song in my heart. Anger remains just under my skin, constant like the rain tapping on the stained glass window. But it’s myself I’m blaming, not the court. Luke should have never been put in this position for my selfish reasons. Yet I chose myself, and as I watch the Blood Moon turn a dull brown behind the veil of cloud and water, the bright joy I simmered with this morning turns into self-pity.
I’m stuck far away from my beloved, a prisoner in my own bedroom. And that’s only because I was lucky enough to have Tristan’s support. He vowed on his life that I won’t leave the palace grounds, and that is the only reason I have not been dragged to the dungeon by the same guards who served me hours ago. I’m grateful for his aid, but his kindness is yet another shackle trapping me. He has Luke, and if I were to defy the rules he’s established and flee, his death would be on me.
I feel vulnerable without my shadowcraft. If the Goldweeds sent in an assassin now, I’d be dead before I could spot the danger, just a limp bag of bones and flesh, forgotten once again. My hope lies in them being too busy fetching Dark Companions of their own to pay any mind to the wretched Sunspawn they surely hope to humiliate in public.
I shudder when the itch to search the walls and windows for possible ways out overcomes my reason, but I can’t betray the one man who’s chosen to help me in the hour of my fall. I hate the way he watched me, as if I shed my elven disguise and revealed myself to be a wild, unpredictable beast, but how can I blame him when so many things I’ve done are monstrous?
With that choice made, all I have left is to wait for my sentence.
The moral judgment, passed by the court.
The decision whether I can even be considered a prince and compete for the title I intended to claim under false pretenses.
But most frightfully of all, I await the chance to see my Luke again. I was exposed as a liar, and a fraud. I might never become Lord. I might be banished, imprisoned, or executed. Why would Luke want to be bound to someone like me at all? He’d be forced to carry my shame like a brand.
On the other hand, my fear isn’t just about losing the crown and a position promising freedom and power. If the Goldweeds win tomorrow’s trial, I’m as good as dead, and then Luke will be at their mercy. They wouldn’t let him go. He’d be either killed, so no one can have him, or forced to marry any of the other knights or royals as their Dark Companion, a fate that in some cases could be worse than death.
When I think of Luke abused, tortured, raped, or trapped in the shadowild, I want to sink claws into Anatole’s throat. I grab a cup off my table and throw it at the wall so its pieces can join the rest of the porcelain I shattered so far.
The door next to the pile of broken crockery opens, and I duck, hiding behind the bed while I search for something I can use as a weapon. The collar feels ever heavier, a dead weight on my shoulders, and it might as well end up being the anchor to pull my body all the way to the depths of Grief Ocean, but as I wait, the familiar red mane puts me at ease.