Page 75 of Trick

Poet

I’m supposed to admit guilt and ask forgiveness. I’m supposed to call it a mistake.

Based on how often I had been hurling myself into stupidity’s waiting arms, you would think I’d made a deal with the devil.

Except the devil was me.

Again, jesters don’t apologize. Rather, I will say this. It would be impossible to repent a muddy, maddening kiss that depletes one of air and intellect, a kiss that makes a mockery of reason.

Neither would it beget much of a tale if I’d regretted having a taste of her, since remorse would have made life simple. For then I could have walked away with bruised lips, but with the divine trinity intact—my conscience, my cunning, and my cock.

Instead, I self-destructed. Mind, body, and black soul …

*

Briar tore off my lap. She toppled onto the grass, then staggered to her feet. To complete the drama, her hand shot to her mouth.

What Have I Done?scrawled in pink across her face.

Seasons almighty. I flattened my palms into the mud, attempted to stifle their damnable shaking, and waited until my blood cooled and my erection deflated. It took a while. I wasn’t used to feeling unsated by the aftermath, never needed to recover before.

My joints quaked from the impact of Briar—from the loss of her. Moreover, my head levitated, then crashed to earth as though I had been tossed from a vortex. It felt like I’d been slapped out of a euphoric hallucination that only certain petals could otherwise achieve.

Eventide descended fully, stalking its way into the meadow. That was how long we’d been making a hot mess of each other. Once I managed to calm myself, I picked through my reserves. My thoughts scavenged for witticisms or wisecracks, none of them adequate, all of them rubbish.

I opted for role-play instead and fake-gasped, “You beast.”

The princess’s hand fell. Her eyes narrowed to slits.

I held out my fingers like a damsel, and she played the hero, helping me to stand. Nonetheless, disquiet wedged itself between us. We attempted to rid ourselves of the dirt, smacking at our clothes and combing through our hair, not that it did much good.

Of all the sullied places that caught my notice, mud smudged her wrist. As I wiped it with my sleeve, the princess went rigid. Her self-loathing was impossible to miss, because at least one of us had to set the moral example.

Yet for some reason, her reaction drove a stake through my chest. To cover it up, I gave her a once-over. “You’re filthier than me.”

Briar drew back. “I do not care.”

There went the mortal remains of my ego. Because I was an eternal prick, I couldn’t tell if I’d been trying to lighten the mood or sabotage it further, to get her to laugh or scowl. Both options had merit, though only one of them felt like a dangerous reflex.

“Did you lie?” she asked.

The question brought me up short. I met her flinty eyes and noticed her arms had crossed. She closed herself off like a drawbridge, like I might contaminate her—me or the woodland.

A monstrous thought occurred to me, one that I’d forgotten. Sometimes after a storm, the elements of this forest traveled and permeated different areas. That included more than windblown seeds or pollen. It meant the essence of recklessness could have migrated—threads of them, at least. That would have been enough to provoke anyone to abandon sense.

“Did you lie to me?” Briar repeated, her pupils tremulous, vulnerable in a way they’d never been.

I wanted to fix that look, to smooth the crinkle between her brows with my thumb. “No,” I said, then admitted, “But I might have underestimated one bitty fact.”

I told Briar of my suspicions, which only made those platinum eyes quaver more. It lasted seconds before she fortified herself, fastening her arms tighter. “Then it wasn’t real.”

“Wasn’t it?” I contested.

“I guess we’ll never know.”

“That depends on what happens between us when we leave here.”

The princess marched past me, her shoulder knocking against mine on the way. “Nothing will happen,” she mumbled before retreating into the thicket.

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