Page 120 of Heirs of the Cursed

Killian was in love with her, even when he played her all along. In another time, where the lies didn’t tear them apart and the weight of their own loyalties didn’t threaten to consume them, she’d have cried in joy and kissed him. But that was a life the goddesses had stolen from them.

“I don’t care to know that I’ve shared nights with a man who lied to me from the beginning.”

“I never meant to deceive you.”

“Don’t you dare lie to me,” Naithea growled close to his face. “I gave you all of me! Every part that wasn’t already broken . . . And you decided to take that from me. Was it a game for you? I’m sure you and your soldiers enjoyed your evenings as you told them how easy it was to charm the most famous whore of Bellmare.”

“Shut up.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just . . . Shut up.” Killian took a step forward and cupped her face in his hands, inhaling her fragrance. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“I could murder you right now,” she warned with a grunt.

“That’s not what your body is telling me, love.”

Her eyes widened at his words, but Naithea didn’t need to see the tiny grains of pixie dust under his nose to know that Killian wasn’t himself. The only reason she was still fully self-aware was because, after years of consumption, she’d built up a little resistance.

“Killian, don’t.”

The prince’s breath crashed against her lips. “I’ve waited for the day you would speak my true name for months,” he admitted, pinning Naithea against the trunk of a tree. “I could make you mine right here if you’d let me. I could wed you and make you my queen for all I care.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” she whispered.

“I may be intoxicated with pixie dust, Naithea, but my senses are still as sharp as an arrow. And I can hear your heart begging me to do it. I’d bet my own throne you want that too.”

Naithea gasped breathlessly, frozen in place as Killian’s hand trailed down her body, sending her nipples pressing firmly against the fabric of her shirt. He rubbed her flat stomach, which sank under his caresses, and squeezed her hip bone before continuing his path to that sensitive spot.

She wanted to close her eyes and let go for a second. To forget his deception, his betrayal, and the truth that had unfolded before her eyes.

But she couldn’t.

Before his fingers brushed the stiff fabric of her pants, right between her legs where he’d find the wetness he so desperately sought, Naithea caught his hand. She turned with one of the maneuvers Leonel had taught her, until Killian’s back bumped against the trunk.

A look of satisfaction and pleasure softened his features, as though her dominant side only fueled his desire for her.

Naithea didn’t dare to look him in the eye. She feared that, in doing so, she’d give in. And the images that kept replaying in her mind were enough to show her that there was no salvation for them. That they would never see each other again after that night.

Instead, she lowered her gaze to the ground, to the damp earth where a dark, unfamiliar stone lay. Naithea took it in her hand, feeling a strange warmth, before slamming it against Killian’s chest with pain coursing in her own.

“This is yours,” she declared. She looked at him for long seconds, knowing it was the last time their paths would cross, and then said, “Goodbye, Your Highness.”

Without another word, Naithea staggered away, ignoring the pixies flying above them, out of the hiding places in which they used to shelter, and what that meant.

But it was Prince Killian Allencort who came back to his senses when he noticed that the stone he now held in his hand, the one that had been recovered from the Fallen Kingdom and had been covered with traces of the holly of death, was now completely clean.

33

Saevus Forest

Darcia didn’t know for how long they’d been running.

With Alasdair’s help, she trudged forward, her body, soul, and heart unraveling with each step. The thief guided her throughthe forest amidst caresses of comfort, leading her away from her stepbrother, from the circus, from her home . . . Away from Dawnfall.

Haunted by dreams of a darkness filled with dust, stone and nightmares, the first thing she saw upon opening her eyes was Alasdair. Not the usual masked face, but the one that truly belonged to him.

His slightly disheveled hair fell over his emerald eyes. His skin was pale, even paler under the moonlight, yet his features were firm. He must be about her age, perhaps a couple of years older. Her eyes lingered on the small mole under his left eye and the long scar near his throat.

---