Page 11 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons
“I’m sure you’ve had plenty to occupy your time,” I said, the words laced with a venom I couldn’t conceal.
"On the contrary, I imagine you've been quite busy yourself. Keeping up with all your... commitments must be exhausting."
The barb landed exactly as I'd hoped. The warmth drained from her face, replaced by a guarded, wounded expression. She understood my meaning, if not the depth of the venom behind it. She took a half-step back, as if I had physically struck her.
"I see," she said, her voice barely a whisper. The hurt in her eyes was a fresh wound in my own chest, a painful reminder that I still loved the woman I was trying so desperately to hate.
Before she could say more, before I could give in to the urge to either apologize or escalate the fight, I gave her a curt nod. "If you'll excuse me," I said, turning away from her without another glance. "I need more wine."
Without waiting for a reply, I gave her a curt, dismissive nod and turned away, melting back into the crowd. I needed more wine. I needed to forget her face, her voice, the way my heart still fractured for a woman I could never truly have.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of meaningless conversation and steadily increasing intoxication. I found myself thinking about my father, about the growing certainty that he'dbeen behind the bombing that had killed so many innocent people. The Emperor I'd spent my life trying to please, trying to make proud, was a monster who saw lives as expendable pieces in his political games.
And what did that make me? His son, his heir, complicit in his crimes through blood and association? If Livia ever discovered who I really was, would she look at me with the same disgust I felt when I thought about my father's actions?
The wine made the thoughts sharper, more painful. I'd spent so many years believing I could be different, could rule with justice and compassion when my time came. But how could I ever escape the shadow of my father's legacy? How could I ask someone like Livia—someone who'd clearly suffered under Imperial rule—to love the future Emperor?
By the time the formal dinner ended, I was thoroughly drunk and thoroughly miserable. I made my excuses and stumbled back toward my quarters, the Academy corridors blurring slightly around the edges. The alcohol hadn't numbed the pain the way I'd hoped; if anything, it had amplified everything, making my emotions raw and overwhelming.
I'd barely made it through my door when I heard footsteps in the hallway behind me. I turned, expecting to see a servant, but instead found Valeria silhouetted in my doorway.
"May I come in?" she asked, though she was already stepping into my sitting room without waiting for an answer.
"Valeria." I tried to focus on her face, which swam slightly in my vision. "What are you doing here?"
She had changed from her evening gown, now dressed in a gold silk gown that left little to the imagination. Her dark hair was piled high in an elaborate style that probably took her slaves hours to achieve, and her smile held the predatory edge I'd grown to despise.
"Jalend," she purred, moving to the wine table and helping herself to a goblet. "You look absolutely dreadful. When was the last time you slept?"
"What do you want, Valeria?"
She pouted prettily, a calculated expression that had probably worked on every other man she'd ever encountered. "Can't a friend visit without ulterior motives?"
"We're not friends." I took another sip of wine, hoping she'd take the hint and leave. "And you always have ulterior motives."
"So suspicious." She moved closer, close enough that I could smell her expensive perfume—something cloying and overpowering that made me think of funeral flowers. "Perhaps I'm concerned about your wellbeing. You've been quite the hermit lately."
"I've been busy."
"Brooding, more like." Her fingers trailed along my arm, and I had to resist the urge to shake her off. "It's not healthy, all this solitude. A man has needs, after all."
She moved closer, reaching out to touch my chest, her fingers trailing down the front of my formal tunic, I realized with sudden clarity what kind of techniques she wanted to discuss.
"I don't think—" I started, but she pressed a finger to my lips.
"Don't think," she whispered, rising up on her toes to bring her mouth close to my ear. "Just feel. You've been so tense lately, so serious. Let me help you relax."
For a moment—just a moment—I was tempted. The alcohol made her offer seem almost reasonable, a way to forget the pain of Livia's betrayal, to prove to myself that I could be as casual about physical intimacy as she apparently was. Valeria was beautiful, willing, and here. Why shouldn't I take what she was offering?
Then her lips were on mine, and the brief temptation curdled into revulsion. Her kiss was a performance—skilled, practiced,and utterly empty. It held none of the hesitant fire of Livia’s touch, none of the raw, desperate connection that had made my world tilt on its axis. But even as she pressed against me, her hands working at the fastenings of my tunic, all I could think about was Livia. The way her skin felt under my hands, the sound she made when I kissed the sensitive spot just below her ear, the way she looked at me afterward like I was something precious and fragile.
This wasn't what I wanted. This was a transaction, and the price was a piece of my soul I wasn’t willing to sell.
"No," I said, my voice low and thick with alcohol and self-loathing. I pushed her hands away from my chest and took a stumbling step back, putting distance between us. "I think you should leave."
“But Jalend,” she began, her tone shifting from seductive to petulant. “I only thought—”
“I don’t care what you thought,” I cut her off, my own pain making me cruel. “Get out, Valeria. Now.”
