Nectar of the Wicked (Deadly Divine, #1) (33)

The faerie’s silver mustache shifted with the thinning of his lips. An incline of his head was apparently all the greeting I would receive.

I was too distracted by the majestic extravagance as we moved into the giant foyer to mind. Ahead, the ceiling rose through the second floor. A dark crystal chandelier housing dozens of candles glinted above me.

“Come, butterfly.”

But I wasn’t finished admiring the portraits of the Hellebore family.

A gilded frame contained a young Florian. Another a brunette female with eyes so much like his, she could only be his mother. A male with black hair stood beside her with dark eyes and a similar severe bone structure to his son.

He stood with the regal and proud look of a male who knew he’d been gifted a great fortune. Not merely because he wore a crown of onyx and diamond and sapphire jewels, but because of the female he held at the waist and the hand affectionately clasped over his son’s shoulder.

Such a stark contrast to the portrait of the same late king of Hellebore on the opposite wall.

In this one, there was no queen, and Florian’s father had lost that glow in his eyes. He still stood proud before his son and the young female of whom I guessed had been born some years after Florian had grown.

Here, Florian was taller than his father—broader. The arrogance he carried glinted in those ever-changing eyes. But the firmness of his jaw, the protective hand he’d placed on the very young female’s shoulder, spoke volumes.

He had adored his sister. A sister I knew nothing about, and therefore I assumed she’d passed on quite some time ago.

My throat tightened as I wondered how old she’d been when that’d happened—as I reached out to touch the rosy cheeks covered in gentle obsidian curls. Her eyes were a brighter blue than her brother’s, but there was a different mischief to them.

A darkness that no amount of color could hide.

“Her name was Lilitha.”

Florian’s toneless voice stunned me, and my hand dropped to my side.

It was wrong of me to ask. I’d barely stepped a few feet into his home. Regardless, I failed to trap the curiosity when he clipped, “Ask, butterfly.”

“How young was she when she died?”

Expressionless, he said while staring at his sister, “Twenty-one years.”

So dreadfully young, especially in Fae years. I was tempted to ask why, but I’d already pried too much.

Florian glanced at me, as if sensing and awaiting the question.

I said in jest, “She looks as though she would have caused you a great deal of trouble.”

“You have no idea,” he said with a huff, though he did not smile. He turned and marched from the foyer into the adjoining hall.

Beyond the staircase, a spray of moonlight washed over the smooth stone floors through a row of what seemed to be glass panes.

A courtyard sat in the very center of the manor.

Atop the landing, I leaned against the stone railing to glimpse it through the glass that rose from the first floor all the way to the ceiling.

Though it was now fully dark, the courtyard was aglow with lanterns of firelight in each corner. Hedges of those blue roses sat on either side of wooden bench seats, and behind them, ivy fell in curtains from the rooftop.

“There will be time to explore as much as you wish,” the king said. “Right now, you should wash up and rest. I have some matters I must see to.”

The tone of his voice, or rather the lack thereof, left no room for argument.

I followed him up the stairs, my eyes flitting over various artworks of ancestors long passed and earlier depictions of the manor we walked within. I was so engrossed with taking everything in, I nearly ran into Florian’s back when he stopped before two large doors.

“My rooms,” he said, then walked on to the right. The hall curved into another, and it contained only one door at the end. He opened it and gestured for me to enter ahead of him. “Yours.”

The thought of sleeping so close to him both unnerved and thrilled me. Remembering I’d taken a long nap upon his lap in the carriage after what he’d done to me, I almost laughed at the absurdity of having any apprehension at all.

I stepped inside.

And I promptly lost all the air within my lungs.

The bedchamber was easily triple the size of the apartment I’d once thought I might never escape. Filigreed molding adorned the corners of the ceiling, which had been painted in a mural of stars and clouds and rays of sunlight in homage to the faerie mother, Mythayla.

White shelving rose toward the ceiling and stretched along one entire side of the room, books lining every available space. Upon the other side, farthest from Florian’s chambers—to my foolish relief—was the bathing room and what looked to be a dressing chamber.

The bed in the center of the room was dressed in creams and crimsons and drowning in frilled and velvet pillows. Ivory netting was tied to the white posts with blood-red ribbon. Two wooden nightstands in matching white stood on either side, the brass-held candles atop them already aflame.

I’d almost forgotten the king stood behind me until he murmured with a slight touch of amusement, “I’ll send for you at dinner, butterfly.”

As soon as the door clicked closed, a loud breath whooshed from my lungs, followed by a disbelieving and uncontrollable laugh.

The sound echoed as I twirled into the room.

I fell to the gigantic bed on my back and stared up through the netting to the fascinating artwork on the ceiling.