Page 24 of Queen of Mirrors and Madness

He shakes his head. “I declined her majesty’s offer. Although that didn’t do me any favors. She doesn’t take kindly to rejection.”

“I see.” I blow out a breath and lace my fingers in my lap, studying them with abject fascination. The relief that hits me at Lucien’s answer is unwarranted. What do I care if he slept with another woman, someone I don’t even remember? I just met him. His past is not something I should concern myself with.

Yet, I do care.

“By the by, I never liked Lord Tyson,” Lucien says. “He’s such a twat, always dribbling about some new item he purchased or piece of land he secured. It’s a bore really. If he’s the one you envisioned, then you needn’t worry about not remembering him. You’re not missing anything.”

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, debating on whether or not to ask about the queen. My mother. The woman who, according to my vision—or was it a memory?—tortured me, forcing me to have sex with numerous people.

“Little bird, what is it?”

Lucien interrupts my sour musings by plucking me out of my chair. Before I can utter a shriek, he settles me on his lap and wraps his arms around my waist.

“That’s better,” he whispers in my ear. “Now tell me what you were thinking of just now. It pained you.”

The scent of him hits my nose, and I greedily inhale, pulling his essence into my lungs. Although unpredictable and wild, Lucien is the only man here who I can trust to tell me the truth. And not judge mine.

“I think what I saw was a memory,” I say, my voice the same low volume as Lucien’s. “If that’s true, then the queen is not someone I want to remember. That’s to say nothing of the king.”

“Can’t say that I blame you. And the king is dead, so there’s that.”

I turn in his embrace, nearly brushing his lips with mine. He grins down at me when I flush. “If you want a kiss, little bird, you don’t need to ask. Just take what you want.”

Silence descends on us, and my mind drifts like a boat at sea.WhatdoI want?

The answer is simple: to love and be loved in return, without accidentally hurting or killing my partner. However, the execution of this desire is not so simple.

“I only know what Idon’twant, and that’s the return of my memories,” I say. “No good can come from them.”

Lucien tilts his head. “Don’t you want to remember who you are? Our experiences mold us into the people we are today. They’re the core of our identity. We can’t escape them, no matter how hard we try.”

With us being so close, I can make out the pain that briefly turns his blue gaze sharp and glacial. Something tugs at my heart and I place my hands on his cheeks, cradling his face. It’s warm and smooth underneath my palms, inviting me to explore more of his skin, but I refrain.

“I’m sorry, Lucien.”

“Whatever for?

I shrug. “Because of what hurt you. I can also recognize pain. Just know you’re not alone in your suffering.”

He studies me as though he’s never laid eyes on me before. Then his smile appears, lighting up the room. And my soul. Regardless of his unpredictability that makes me uneasy, I’m beginning to really like Lucien. There’s a depth to him that he hides underneath mirth and outlandish remarks.

“You are right,” he says after a time. “Maybe it’s best if you don’t regain your memories.”

“Why the sudden change of heart?”

He winces at the last word. Or I imagine it. Either way, his newfound opinion boggles my mind.

“I never interacted with you, despite my numerous appearances at Court,” he says, “but you’re nothing like the woman described to me. I rather like that, and I don’t want you to be anything different than who you are at this moment.”

My chest expands with a happiness that’s foreign to me. The warmth of emotion spreads, invading my skin, my blood, and possibly my heart.

I press my forehead to his. “Thank you.”

“I’d like to dine, if that’s all right with the two of you.”

I snatch my hands away from Lucien and whip my head around to find Baxter standing in the doorway. He wears a light green waistcoat that’s almost the same shade as his eyes, making them more pronounced. His tan breeches pair nicely with his silk brown shirt, which has a row of silver buttons down the middle. He’s quite dapper dressed like this, and I find myself leisurely taking in the sight of him.

Unfortunately, his expression holds nothing but mild irritation. Upon closer inspection, his gaze is afire. With what, I can’t discern. Hatred is most likely. It causes me to turn away.

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