Page 57 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen
Twice.
Three times.
“I’m not above trampling down your door if necessary,” I announce to the empty hallway, unsure if she can hear me.
Then, with a daring smile, she opens it. A plain black shirt hugs her curves, the loose neckline slipping off one shoulder, with matching form-fitting pants.
“Come in, pretty boy. And tell me what was said during thisso-oh-importantmeeting.”
The gown I wove for her is in tatters on the floor. I step over it on my way inside the room, a pang of regret squeezing my chest. “They want us to go to Zepharion and broker a truce with the Tidecallers.”
Even dressed down, she’s a goddess. Her braids fall over her bare shoulder like a river of flames framing her face, and her breasts peak through the black shirt.
“They offered to rescind your banishment and let us marry if we succeed,” I add, my tongue parched.
“It’s a mission they don’t expect both of us to survive,” she scoffs. “The crowns don’t give a damn about anything but clinging to their own power. What kind of leverage can we offer the Tidecallers when we know the seven crowns will do anything to stop real reform?”
“The destruction of the chalice makes reform inevitable. If we can find a compromise, we could save my brother, save your friend, and lead Faerie into a new age.”
“You’re being naive. Preventing war now is impossible.”
The trivial way she dismisses my point of view strikes a painful nerve, and I pinch the bridge of my nose, turning away to gather my thoughts. “Making the impossible possible is what kings and queens of Faerie are for. You of all people should agree with that. Do you have any idea what it feels like to be dismissed outright—every day, all the time? You might have spent decades in exile, but you used to bequeen. No one can take that away from you.”
She lowers her voice, but it only enhances her mystique. “You think it’s easy, losing a crown? It’s even worse than never having one at all.”
I spin around to face her again. “The grass is always greener, right? You have no idea what it’s like to be a bastard, to be ignored and belittled by your own father?—”
“Yes I do!” she snaps back.
“You’re a legend, a force of nature. Your name is spoken in fear and reverence throughout the worlds while I’m nothingmore than the butt of a joke. The prince of nowhere and nothing at all. How could you possibly understand?”
She lifts her chin, tearing off the golden circlet I wove through her braids and throwing it at my feet. “I worked my ass off my whole life, only for your mother to sabotage me at every turn. Excuse me if being prince—if having an endless line oflovers, incredible power over two schools of magic, and infinite wealth—isn’t enough for you.”
I bridge the gap between us. “Was it enough for you, when you were a princess? You were always hungry for more, no? Ambition is not a crime.”
She digs her heels into the ground, not backing down. “It’s no virtue, either.”
Our chests rise and fall, our faces inches apart, and I forget why we’re shouting. The thin cotton of her shirt clings to her forms in a distracting fashion, and I raise a hand to caress her arm from shoulder to wrist. “It’s a sin we both share, then. You and me, we’re starving for more.”
Her eyelids flutter before she suddenly shoves me toward her bed, the back of my knees hitting the mattress. She prowls forward, pushing me to a seat with both hands. I sit on the edge on her bed as she straddles me, and my throat bobs, my hands instinctively finding her hips.
She presses her forehead to mine. “We have to stop quarrelling.” Our lips brush, her braids cascading around us, blocking the large windows from view. “Byron’s outside, spying on us. That noisy brat.”
I tuck a handful of braids behind her ear and cup her face. “Why would he do that?”
She rakes her nails along my hairline. “Elio must have put him up to it. He doesn’t believe I’m into you.”
“For an ex-boyfriend, Elio sure is awfully invested in your love life,” I grumble.
She works my coat off my shoulders and dumps it to the ground, my undershirt quick to follow. “He’s not my ex.”
“Fine, you might not havedated, but you two sure sharedsomething.”
She pushes me onto my back, climbing over me and nuzzling my neck. “Shh.” She traces the ridges and grooves of mystomach. “Let’s pretend to like each other for the time being, and give his little snitch a convincing visual, alright?”
My breath hitches as she slips her top off.
A black rose tattoo blooms across her abdomen, its stem winding up along her ribs in precise, deliberate lines. One tendril reaches higher, curving beneath her left breast. The ink is dark and bold, burned into her skin by Eros herself. My muscles cramp, my hands digging into the soft flesh of her waist.
