Nectar of the Wicked (Deadly Divine, #1) (71)

He laughed, the sound cold and hostile. “Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it, Princess.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I’ve never felt more murderous in my entire fucking existence.”

Oh.

Shit.

Guilt and jealousy tangled, causing my mouth to open again when every instinct screamed in warning that it would be safer not to speak at all. “I saw you,” I whispered. “With her.”

He stilled, but only momentarily. He opened the door and entered the hall.

“Florian, wait.” I followed. “Please, I want to talk to you.”

He turned back, effectively backing me into my bed chamber as the fury roiling from him drenched me in a light sweat.

My very flesh trembled. There was nothing I knew within his gaze, within his features and his prowled steps.

Before me loomed a stranger—a male with hatred where his soul once lived. It bled through his eyes, the air growing so cold, I feared it would snow indoors.

He was no longer Florian.

He was now a ruthless king capable of reducing another kingdom to rubble, stone by stone at a time.

“Bad pets do not get what they want.” My next breath sat in my throat when he wrapped his hand around it. My pulse punched at his fingers as he growled to my mouth, “Leave these rooms without my permission, and you’ll earn yourself a lesson on what regret truly means.”

His eyes bored into mine, swirling with a darkness that rendered them almost black. After a moment that brought tears to my eyes, I was released.

The door slammed, snow flurries melting upon the floor.





Sleep refused to take me away from the fear and uncertainty that had me pacing my bedchamber into the early morning hours.

And when it finally did, Florian still hadn’t returned to his rooms.

I woke with the first touch of dawn creeping into the ice-covered windows and a pounding ache within my skull and limbs. There would be no king willing to soothe it for me, so I crawled from where I’d fallen asleep at the end of the bed and drew a bath.

I donned my preferred robe, without a reason to dress even if I had the energy to, and wondered if breakfast would be delivered.

I combed my wet hair while Snow whined to be let out.

The door wasn’t locked. I still hesitated to open it, worried I’d be met with Florian’s wrath for merely letting the wolf cub find a way outside.

Snow scratched at the wood. I gave in and let her out, hoping someone would do the same when she reached an exit to the manor downstairs.

The aches had morphed into something reminiscent of a fever. I’d never had one. Fae did not fall victim to sickness as humans did. But I’d tended to Rolina when she’d been bedridden with them so often that I knew the signs.

I drank the remaining water in the carafe within the bathing room, my hands shaking as I leaned upon the stone wash basin. My eyes were murky, my cheeks too pronounced and tinged with a flush that would not recede when I touched them.

I stared at the ginormous bathing tub beside me, tempted to climb back into the water I’d yet to drain.

A knock sounded.

I left the bathing room as the door to my rooms opened.

Olin, grim-faced, said in a tone that made me clutch at my robe, “The king desires your presence in the downstairs drawing room.” He scowled when I didn’t move. “Immediately.”

I swallowed and nodded.

Atop the stairs, I turned when Olin said quietly from behind me, “Do not test him. I’ve only seen him like this once before.” His eyes seemed absent, and I knew he was remembering whatever had happened then. “This time is different. He’s...” He shook his head and exhaled heavily. “Be very careful.”

Although alarming, it was possibly the nicest the steward had ever been to me. I nodded again, grateful for the warning and for the indication that he did not wish to see me murdered.

Even as a bone-deep instinct reassured me that Florian wouldn’t hurt me.

At least, not in the ways Rolina had.

That didn’t stop my heart from rattling in my chest as I made my way down the stairs to the drawing room. It stopped beating when I entered the open doors to find three faeries tied by their wrists to a wooden beam in the ceiling.

Their swollen and bloody faces made them nearly unrecognizable. Though that wasn’t what horrified me so completely.

Ice encased them all. From their toes to their mouths, it appeared to cocoon them.

Regardless, I still knew who they were.

The overwhelming scent of their fear matched that of the males who’d tormented and touched me profusely at the Frost Festival.

Dread heavied my slow-to-return heartbeat.

Florian sat in the armchair by the snow-piled window.

At first glance, he was the definition of composure.

But he was without a shirt, his knuckles bloodied and cut. The foot resting over his knee bounced. His elbow dug into the leather armrest. His thumb slid over his lower lip, blue eyes fixed on the prey he’d hunted.

The doors behind me creaked.

I glanced over my shoulder to Olin. He pulled the doors toward him, giving me a slight nod, then trapped me inside the room with the king whose rage seeped from him as a second scent.

The earthy caramel fragrance I’d come to obsess over had sharpened. It was headier but tinged with an acidic aroma that heightened the senses, his fury a blistering-cold energy akin to standing outside during the arrival of a snowstorm.