Page 46 of The Lost Prince
I put an arm under Clover’s legs and wrapped the other around her shoulder. With a grunt and cry of pain from her, I carried her out of the room and into the corridor.
The door to the room slammed behind us. Horrific screams erupted from the room.
Clover whimpered, and I clutched her tightly to me. Not to comfort her, but to try and quell the rage inside of me, because once again, the queen had won.
That frigid, cold bitch had won.
And I still wanted her.
I hated myself. No, I hated her.
“Z, I—”
“Hush. Let’s get you to the primas.”
She didn’t protest, and was more than happy to leave me for the primas and their numbing tonics. I thanked them and made my way back to the corridor. I had to know what happened to those girls. I had to know who the queen was meeting.
The door was open, but it was dark inside. Smoke wafted into the corridor, the scent of charred meat thick in the air.
Poking my head in, I recoiled at the scorched bones and piles of ashes. Surely that wasn’t … How was that even possible?
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
I jumped so bad I nearly bashed my head into the door frame, whipping around so fast my robe tangled in my legs. My hands raised in front of me reflexively, but I lowered them immediately.
You didn’t throw punches with the king, after all.
My father.
Say something.
I couldn’t. I could count the number of times I’d even seen the king on one hand, including this one. He looked so much like me that it physically hurt. We stared at each other. Then I remembered he’d spoken first.
“I’m working on it. The not getting killed part,” I said, clearing my throat awkwardly.
He kept looking at me. And looking.
“I … are you here to meet the queen?” I asked.
He blinked at that, the ghost of a sad smile twisting the left corner of his lip.
“No,” he said softly, shaking his head. “No. I simply … I don’t know what I’m doing. I tell myself I’m keeping an eye on things, but that doesn’t matter much when the result is the same and you have no control.”
Wise words. I tilted my head to the side, studying him.
“The queen–” I was not sure if what I had to say would be considered offensive or treasonous.
“Is a cunt,” the king finished succinctly, mirth sparking in his eyes for a moment before extinguishing.
A rough guffaw left my throat before I could help it.
He raised a hand towards me and I flinched, but he only rested it gently on my cheek, before pulling away.
“I am sorry about your mother. If I’d have known …” His gaze turned toward the floor.
“You’d have done what, exactly? The same as you always do?” I said bitterly, past the point of caring. This man was the king.If he didn’t have any power, who did?
The queen, obviously.
