Page 46 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
“I know you’re not a whore, Atlas. Do you think I’m blind? Do you think I’m stupid? I know the reason you act the way you do, and it has nothing to do with your magic and everything to do with how your father, and everyone else for that matter, treats you.” She bit her bottom lip, blinking hastily. “I said those things because I knew you could take it. Because that’s what we do. I tease you about your sexual encounters and you scorn me about my rash and sometimes questionable decisions.”
Her breath hitched, and by the time he landed on her balcony, she was scrambling to get out of his arms.
“But you…” She shook her head, tucking some dark, fallen waves behind one ear. “You wanted to hurt me. You intentionally wanted to make me feel devalued and worthless. So, congratulations, Your Imperial Highness. You succeeded.”
Somehow, hearing his proper title instead of the more annoying one she gave him hurt more than any insult tossed his way. “Everinne, I?—”
She held up one hand, backing away from him. Never before had she looked at him with such hate. Such contempt. “Don’t waste your breath on me.”
“Ever, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to?—”
“Save your apologies for someone who cares.” Then she disappeared into her apartment and slammed the glass door behind her so soundly that it rattled.
“Great work, Skye,” Atlas mumbled to himself, his wings catching the breeze to take him back to the palace. “Now you’re the prince of fuckups as well.”
He landed in the gardens, preferring to avoid having a conversation with anyone, which made no difference to Caedian, who leaned against the far wall, watching him from beneath an overhang of frostbitten trees.
Furious with himself, Atlas stalked through the gardens, kicking loose stones and mumbling any number of vulgar obscenities. It was probably best for Everinne to continue to hate him, for them to despise the presence of one another. Anything else was far too complicated. Eventually, his pace slowed and his frustration ebbed, so he found himself wandering near the pond where bushes of wild roses bloomed. For as long as he could remember, they’d always been his mother’s favorite. The petals changed with the seasons—soft pink in spring, vibrant turquoise in the summer, deep red in the autumn, and snowy white in the winter. Their scent was sweet, lightly floral and enchanting. Such a beautiful flower for such a beautiful soul.
He lowered himself onto one of the large gray stones near the water’s edge and pulled the crumpled pack of stigs from his pocket. Sticking one between his lips, he sought his lighter next, and the blue flame flared to life.
Atlas inhaled, then blew out a puff of smoke. The smell of skullcap and passionflower floated around him, before it was replaced by the scent of inky papers, earth, and leather.
He took another drag of his stig, then asked, “What do you want, Auvyre?”
Veros strolled out from behind a row of evergreen bushes. “Care to tell me what all that was about?”
Atlas only stared at him in return.
“You know, the part where you were seething with jealousy because some fae lord swept my sister off her feet?” Veros reached up, plucking an evergreen leaf off one of the nearby trees. He twirled the tiny stem between his fingers, then let it fall to the ground. “And then when she left, you proceeded to go after her?”
Atlas took another drag of his stig, wishing the pounding ache between his temples would go away. His head was throbbing—he should’ve known better than to drink so early in the day. But he was definitely going to need a shot of honeyfire if he stood any chance of making it through this conversation.
“I’m pretty sure you were in the same room as me,” he answered, unable to hide the bitterness seeping into his tone. “She practically threw herself at him.”
Veros straightened, rolling his shoulders back. He adjusted the sleeves of his coat, flicking both of his wrists in unison. His tone was cooler than normal as he said, “With all due respect, Your Imperial Highness, my sister’s behavior is none of your concern.”
“It is when she’s inside the walls of my palace,” Atlas countered, pinching his stig between his thumb and forefinger, flicking away the ash.
Veros watched him with measured indifference, his face a mask of his emotions. The master of the hour was always calm. Always collected. “Eventually, Everinne will find a husband. And when she does, he’ll be the one to take care of her and protect her.”
The thought of Everinne with another male left Atlas strangely unsettled. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew she preferred casual relationships. She took other males to her bed, just as Atlas often found females whose names he couldn’t remember tangled in his sheets in the morning. But a husband was a permanent arrangement.
He snuffed out his stig, his gaze sliding to his boots, where he kicked a pebble into the rippling blue waters of the pond. “You want to see her married off, then?”
“Not exactly.” Veros tucked his hands into his pockets, then rocked his heels back into the soft ground. “But if a dashing fae lord from another realm asks for her hand, I won’t stand in her way.”
A beat of heavy, burdensome silence passed between them.
“And neither will you,” Veros added.
Atlas’s head snapped up.
“He could be good for her, Atlas,” Veros continued, walking slowly toward the edge of the pond where the waters lapped against blades of frozen grass. “He could take her away from this city, give her a life worth living. And make it so she doesn’t have to work at the damned Mystic Obscura.”
Atlas almost smiled, then thought better of it. If he hadn’t been so fucking envious, he might’ve laughed when Everinne announced she was working at the Mystic Obscura then fled like her life depended on it.
“You know,” he drawled, rising from the stone. “She wouldn’t be working there if you hadn’t cut off her financial lifeline.”
