Page 32 of Wicked Prince of Carnage
“Did you put these here?” Sterling asked.
“The prince asked me to.”
Sterling’s brows creased as she stepped inside and lowered herself onto the soft blanket. She barely heard the lock click on the cage or Amalli leaving while she stroked the fur. What sort of game was the prince playing with her now?
CHAPTER TWELVE
WINTER
Winter stood outside his father’s bedchamber, staring at the wooden door. The putrid stench of infection leaked into the hallway mixed with strong tinctures the healers must’ve been using. Perhaps while he was in there, he couldaccidentallyknock them over and prolong their replacements just long enough for the king to die…
After Talia’s betrayal, the king had continued demanding Winter accept his mate—that would never happen. Winter hadn’t known Talia before they recognized each other as mates, but he had planned to accept her. Why wouldn’t he? Wolves only got one fated mate, so without her, he would never marry. Never sire an heir to the throne. Never feel happy or complete.
And maybe he would’ve accepted Talia if she’d been coerced, but she hadn’t been. He’d listened to them both climax through the door, too stunned to do anything different, and then she’d told him that it was nothing butsex, that it would make her a better princess.
And that …thathe could not forgive.
The door swung open and Caston froze. His mouth fell open in surprise before he gathered enough wits to bow his head. “Your Highness.”
“Rawling told me the king awoke and called for me,” Winter snapped. It had been an abrupt summons—even Sterling had still been asleep in her cage when the knock came on the door. She’d glared down at him from beneath her furred blanket as if the prince was personally responsible for the interruption.
Caston stepped aside to allow Winter into the room before leaving. With a silent sigh, Winter squinted at the gossamer curtains surrounding the four-poster bed. Two candles wereburnt to nubs on the small bedside table, casting the room into near darkness. The shutters were closed over the windows to keep out airborne infections and any future assassination attempts.
“Son,” the king called from behind the curtains.
“Unfortunately,” he grumbled.
A quiet, dry breath escaped his father. “Come here.”
Winter hesitated. He didn’t want to see his father—not on death’s door and not at the peak of health. General Rawling had said that he was improving, though, and that was almost worse. To be so close to freeing himself of the king, only for him to claw his way back to the living. “I can hear you from here,” he told him.
“I saidcome here.”
Winter raked a hand through his hair and moved to the bed. How quickly would the old man bleed out if he shifted enough to kill him with a sharpened claw? Not quickly enough for his liking.
With a snap of his wrist, Winter ripped the curtain aside. The candlelight flickered across the king’s sunken face. Swollen, dark circles lined his eyes, his lips were cracked, but his skin wasn’t as pale. The blankets were pulled up to his shoulders, keeping any evidence of the injury hidden.
“You look ghastly,” Winter said with a small smirk.
“Don’t get your hopes up, welp. The healers say I’ll be back on my feet in due time.”
Winter shrugged. “No one can ever betoosure, can they?”
The king released another wheeze, which turned into a cough. He groaned and clutched at his stomach as sweat broke out on his forehead.
“As I said…” Winter cocked his head and crossed his arms. It had been nearly a month since the attempted assassination, and, sadly, the kingwasimproving. “Now, what did you want?”
The coughing fit slowed, exchanged with labored breathing. Long seconds ticked by, ten, then twenty, before his father was able to speak again. “You weren’t here when I woke.”
“I’m aware.”
He scowled. “I’m your father.”
“Ah yes.” Winter examined his nails. “But you seemed to forget that when you fucked my mate.”
He bared his teeth. “I am yourking.”
Winter gave him a wide, forced smile. “A king who slithered between countless women’s legs even while Mother was alive.”
