Page 73 of A Kingdom of Pleasure and Torment

“I grow tired, my love.” He rubs a hand up and down my arm. “Go. Enjoy the party. The music, the dancing, the food… but do not give yourself to anyone else.”

“I have no need to,” I promise him.

“Guard her,” he tells the sylphs who flank our nest of cushions.

I don’t want to be guarded. I want to find a quiet place to cry and curse his name. I can’t stand to keep up this act a moment longer.

“Arcus, no,” I say softly. “No one would dare lay a finger upon me. I would rather they watch over you. I won’t be able to enjoy myself if I worry for your safety.”

He gives me an indulgent smile. “All right. I suppose you know the penalty for disobedience and won’t be tempted to test me.”

I nod solemnly. This is something I don’t have to fake. I never wish to encounter the cephalopire again, although I don’t doubt that he’ll subject me to her on a whim, should he decide to.

I stroll through the party, nodding serenely to courtiers as I pass, but never stopping to talk. I must reserve that, Firo instructed me in preparation for tonight, for when bestowing my favor with a conversation will be useful. If I need to gain the goodwill of one house, a simple compliment on a gown or a particularly masterful game of cards will be the only currency necessary to buy loyalty.

I feel every set of eyes upon me as I walk through the halls and salons, past faeries being flogged and whipped, bound and gagged. I stop to admire the performance of two male faeries at a gaming table. A clockwork contraption with oiled sleeves pumps both of their cocks while courtiers place their bets on each participant’s endurance. The moans and pinched expressions of both participants indicate that the contest is close; when one erupts immediately before the other, a cheer goes up from half the spectators around the table. The other faery bucks his hips and grunts as he finishes, his cum splashing across the pile of wagered gold.

The winner is released from the machine. The loser is not. He curses and whines as the clockwork stroking continues, and more bets are placed on how long he’ll last before he comes again, and how many times he’ll come before he begs for them to stop.

I’m hot and slick between my legs at the spectacle, and not just because of my copulation with Arcus. The sight of the tormented faery, his pink body flush with sweat, his iridescent wings buzzing and setting up a wind around the table, the way his fists clench and release as if grasping for something to help him escape, it’s all too arousing. I want to do as I see others around the table doing and relieve my lust under my own hand.

The debauchery all around is an incredible torture. I need privacy, quiet, and to escape the tantalizing moans and pained screams of those enjoying what I cannot. I know that after my time with Luthian, no one else will satisfy me. Certainly not Arcus; I cannot give myself over to pleasure with someone who has so deeply wronged me.

It’s this thought that drives me outside, into the gardens and, accidentally, to where Luthian and the faery he’d left with are locked in writhing, moaning passion. I halt and watch them lying in a carpet of night-violets together. They are naked and entwined, Luthian curled around his partner’s back, entering him from behind.

Another faery wanders over to them, bare breasts displayed above a tight corset, the only garment she wears. She lies down in front of Luthian’s nameless lover and takes him into her cunt, leaning forward to capture Luthian’s mouth over their shared partner’s shoulder.

Luthian’s eyes meet mine, and I watch the hunger and sadness fill those silver depths.

I turn away, tears burning in my eyes. I hold myself together as I walk further from the palace. The groups of copulating faeries thin, until I am alone, beyond the torchlight, at the mouth of the forest.

That’s when I allow myself to cry. A sob wells in my throat and I don’t stop it from bursting out. I run without a destination in mind, down the path to the sacred circle. I plunge through the trees, the branches whipping my face and snagging my hair. I may be lost. I hope I am lost. I pray that some creature will snatch me and devour me, so that I no longer have to endure the pain and finality of justice slipping through my fingers.

Perhaps if I’d married Thrace, I would have been able to kill him myself. I would have no doubt been caught, but I would rather face the consequence of execution than the threat of the cephalopire, the depravity of Arcus’s desires that are cruel for cruelty’s sake.

I know he will die. Luthian will succeed. Perhaps Cassan will take me as his mate, even though I was his father’s queen; he doesn’t seem the type to be troubled by that prior relationship. But even if he does, even if I am someday queen of the Court of Pleasure and Torment and free of Arcus forever, what’s the point now? Thrace is dead. I don’t need the crown.

I haven’t just lost my revenge. I’ve lost my purpose.

My lungs give out and I must slow, but I don’t want to stop walking. Perhaps no one will come to look for me. I could walk until my feet bleed, until I am so completely lost that I’m no longer myself. Until every vestige of my previous life is erased and I am forgotten to time.

Eventually, the trees thin and I find myself in a familiar clearing. I blink in confusion. There’s the mouth of the cavern. The entrance to the faery bath.

Arcus had taken a dragon ride to a place close enough for me to walk in a ball gown and satin slippers. A dismayed laugh burbles up my throat. The pathetic, self-aggrandizing fool sought to impress me with a flight that seemed to take hours. We likely circled the clearing again and again, just so I would believe he spirited me away to some far-off sanctuary.

And I’m to be his mate, and his queen, and I’m to live out my days among pleasures that are empty because Luthian will not be mine, even after Arcus is dead.

Because I was born for this.

I have no doubt now that Luthian will dispose of me once he reaches his aim. Though he has not confirmed it, though I have not been able to ask, the answer seems so clear to me now beneath the uncaring stars.

He granted his own wish when he granted my mother’s.

I have never existed for my own sake.

The mouth of the tunnel shines with the warm, spectral illumination within. I remember how heavy my gown became when the cephalopire pulled me into the water.

Wiping tears from my eyes, I walk toward the mouth of the cavern.

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