Page 98 of Heir of Illusion

He turns his head slowly toward the source of the interruption, his jaw clenching.

“What?” he barks.

“My King,” Huxley’s nervous voice filters through the door, a much more welcome sound than last night. “There is an emergency with one of the guests. You are needed at once, sire.”

For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore the guard, but then he releases me. He groans as he rolls off the bed, gazing down at me with unrestrained need.

“Sometimes being king is a terrible burden, pet,” he complains. “We’ll have to finish this later.”

He leans in to give me a quick peck, but again, I turn my head. I know I shouldn’t. As evidenced this morning, Baylor loathes being denied. It’s completely opposite from the usual strategy I employ against him, but right now, I can’t bring myself to play the game. If I’m being honest, I’m not acting off any plan right now. There’s nothing calculated in my choice to snub him.

I simply cannot bear his touch.

He pulls back, searching my face for answers. I force my lips to curve into some semblance of a smile. It will have to be enough because I’m not capable of more right now. The gesture must mitigate the rejection slightly because with one last goodbye, he leaves.

The moment the door shuts behind him, I leap from the bed, unable to stay there now that his scent is all over the sheets.All overme.

He’s gone, but I can still feel his touch lingering on my skin. His phantom fingers send another wave of nausea through me, and this time, I don’t bother to choke it down as I empty my stomach onto the hardwood floor. When there’s nothing left to expel, I grab a pillow from the bed and shove my face into it. A ragged scream tears out of me, leaving my throat raw and scratchy. My sharp nails pierce the plush fabric, causing a sea of white feathers to explode through the room as I rip it in half. They float around me, covering everything in a blanket of softness that only infuriates me further.

I wrap my fingers around my collar, pulling at it with all my strength. The metal digs into my skin, but the clasp refuses to break. I desperately scratch and claw at my neck, ignoring the pain as I pray to the Fates to help me.

“Please,” I beg, my voice nothing but a mangled rasp. “Take it off. Take it off!”

Blood drips down my chest, staining the white lace of my nightgown. My legs give out and I sink to the floor beside my bed, rocking back and forth as I keep pulling at the collar.

“I’m begging you,” I cry. “I’ll do anything. Anything!”

I don’t know how long I sit there, soaking in my own rage and terror as I send wretched prayers into the void. Eventually, another sound reaches my ears, clashing with my pathetic murmurings. A door creaks open, followed by the thud of heavy boots stepping into the room.

I lift my head, the weight of it almost too much for my ruined neck. My brow furrows as I find my bedroom door shut. Confusion prickles my dull senses until I hear the sound again. It’s coming from behind me.

The balcony.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I should probably care about this. I should be reaching for the dagger still lying somewhere on the bed. At the very least, I should stand up and prepare to fight. But I stay where I am. If the worst has already happened, what do I have left to fear? Whoever is coming for me now can’t compare to the man who just left.

“I’m here to apologize.”

Thorne.

No,I remind myself.I’m supposed to call him Killian now.

His voice registers, even though his words are meaningless. If my mind was in better shape, I’d probably have sensed him coming the way I always do. Whatever strange connection lies between us would have alerted me to his presence.

“I was out of line.” The words sound painful, as if they’re being pulled from the God of Death against his will. “What happened last night will never happen again.”

I know what he’s saying should mean something to me, but it doesn’t. Even his voice sounds distant, as if he’s calling out to me from the other side of the veil. Have I died? And if so, do I care? Warning bells sound in the back of my mind, trying to alert me to the dangerous direction of my thoughts.

“Are you hiding from me now?”

Boots appear in front of me. Slowly, I drag my gaze up his rigid body, moving over his legs and torso until I find his face. He sounded annoyed when he spoke, but now a different kind of fire blazes behind his eyes. One that I recognize.

Fury.

Muscles clench along his jaw as his eyes rake over my bloodstained nightgown, and the scratches along my throat and face. He’s completely still as he watches me, his fists clenched tight at his sides.

“Who did this to you?” he grinds out the words.

The authority in his voice compels me to speak, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. He takes a step closer, lifting his gloved hand toward my aching neck.

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