Page 44 of Thorns of Deceit: The Beast Within

“Do you?” Skylar challenged, her voice bitter and defeated. “Do you really know me? Or do you just know the version of me you want to see?”

Arye stood abruptly, his face a mask of hurt and anger. He opened his mouth to speak, to argue, but before he could, an imperious voice cut through the air.

“Prince Arye, a word if you please.”

Skylar turned, seeing Princess Quince Spinewood of Thorncrest approaching, her dress shimmering with each movement. Her auburn hair gleamed in the sunlight, artfully arranged to frame her delicate features. But there was nothing delicate about the look in her eyes—sharp and calculating as they flashed with barely concealed anger.

“You’re dismissed,” she declared coldly to Skylar, her tone brooking no argument.

Skylar felt Arye stiffen beside her, his tension palpable. “Princess Quince,” he said, voice tight with fury, “this is hardly the time?—”

“On the contrary,” the princess interrupted, her chin lifting defiantly. “This is precisely the time. We have matters of state to discuss, matters that don’t concern…” she turned her gaze to Skylar, eyes narrowing “whoever that is.”

Skylar’s fingers instinctively twitched toward her sword hilt, muscles tensing. But she caught herself, forcing her body to relax. This wasn’t a battle for steel.

“Your Highness,” she said, addressing Arye formally. “Perhaps it would be best if I took my leave.”

Arye’s hand shot out, gripping her arm. “No,” he said firmly, his eyes flashing with defiance. “You don’t have to go anywhere, Duke Anathemark. Princess Quince can wait.”

Skylar watched as the princess’s eyes narrowed dangerously, her lips pursing in displeasure. “I will not be dismissed so easily, Prince Arye. You seem to have forgotten the delicate nature of our negotiations.”

“I’ve forgotten nothing,” Arye snarled, his patience clearly wearing thin. His grip on Skylar’s arm tightened. “But my personal conversations take precedence over?—”

“Over what?” Princess Quince challenged, her voice rising. “Over the peace between our kingdoms? Over the lives that hang in the balance?” Her mask of cold indifference slipped, revealing a flicker of genuine hurt beneath her anger. “We have an agreement, Prince Arye. Are you so quick to discard it?”

The outburst shocked them into silence. Skylar looked between Arye and Quince, feeling the tension crackling. She could see the conflict raging in Arye’s eyes—duty warring with desire, the weight of his crown pressing down.

In that moment, Skylar knew what she had to do. It would break her heart, but it was necessary. For Arye’s sake, for the kingdom’s, and for her own sanity.

“Your Highness,” she murmured softly, gently removing his hand. “You have responsibilities that can’t be ignored.” She hoped he understood her message. “I’ll take my leave.”

“Wait—” Arye began, reaching for her, his eyes pleading.

Skylar stepped back, out of his reach. “It’s alright, Your Highness. We’ve said all that needs to be said.” She caught a glimpse of his pained expression but forced herself to ignore it. This was for the best. It had to be.

Without waiting for a response, she bowed slightly to both royals, her movements stiff and formal. “Your Highnesses,” she murmured, not meeting either of their gazes.

As she walked away, she sensed Arye’s gaze burning into her back. Each step felt like a betrayal, a denial of all she truly wanted. But she had done what was necessary, what was right.

And one day, everything would be okay.

It had to be.

19

Rain drummed against the window, a steady rhythm accompanying Skylar as she eased into the steaming bath. There were no bindings constricting her chest, no wig itching her scalp. Just Skylar, bare and vulnerable, allowing herself this rare moment of truth.

She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of rose oil floating on the water’s surface. The warmth seeped into her muscles, easing the tension she’d carried for days. Five days, to be exact. Five days since she’d last spoken to Arye, since she’d seen anything but tightness in his jaw and a storm in his gaze whenever their paths crossed.

Her hand drifted lower, skimming her stomach. The water caressed her skin, warm and inviting. For a heartbeat, she considered seeking release, letting pleasure wash away her troubles. Her body responded instantly, a flush creeping up her neck that had nothing to do with the bath’s heat.

Skylar closed her eyes, imagining Arye’s touch instead of her own. The ache of longing intensified—a desperate need for connection, for comfort. Her fingers trembled, hovering on the precipice of desire she’d so often denied herself.

But as quickly as the urge had come, guilt twisted in her gut, sharp and insistent. How could she indulge when she’d hurt Arye so deeply? The memory of his pained expression flashed behind her eyelids, dousing her arousal like ice water, replacing it with a dull pain in her chest. A sigh escaped her lips as she sank deeper into the water, letting it lap at her chin. The gentle waves created by her movement sent ripples across the surface, distorting her reflection.

Arye’s face lingered in her mind, and Skylar found herself wondering when he had started seeing her—seeing Duke Anathemark—as more than a friend. She cast her memory back, searching for clues she might have missed. There had been women, once. Years ago, when they were younger. She remembered teasing him, the way he’d squirmed under her playful jabs.

“Sky, drop it. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he’d muttered, refusing to meet her gaze.

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