“I put up with all of it because he was different in private,” I admit. “He said just enough of the right things. When we were alone, when there were no other eyes around, he whispered pretty words and swore grand promises.”
One of my ribbons slinks down to wrap around my palm, twining around my fingers like it’s giving my hand a squeeze of comfort.
“I don’t understand.” He sounds almost…at a loss. Which is impossible. Slade Ravinger is always sure of himself.
“I told you to prove it to me, and yet you sat there at that table and you were a king.”
He sucks in a breath. Like he’s trying to pull in my truth. Trying to taste it, understand it.
I turn to look at him, ribbons dropping to my feet, chin lifted, my expression unyielding. “Pretty promises in private, and the uncaring king in public.” I shake my head, letting him see the disappointed look on my face. “I’ve been down that road before, Slade. I won’t do it again. I asked you to prove it, and you didn’t.”
He expels a breath and turns away, shoving a hand through his thick black hair. “Fuck.”
I turn to leave, but faster than I can track, he somehow steps in front of me and blocks my way before I can take a second step. I try to turn back the other way instead, but that’s a mistake, because he stops my turn by jutting out an arm to cut me off.
Now I’m stuck, back against the bookshelf, his hands braced on the shelves on either side of me. He takes another step forward into me, even though there’s no space for it. His body crowds mine, making a gasp balk from my mouth.
“Move,” I tell him.
“No,” he quickly says with a shake of his head. “Let me explain.”
I scoff and roll my eyes, because how many times have I heard that? I don’t want to be that person anymore, that rug for everyone to walk all over.
“Things with Midas and I are precarious at best,” Slade tells me, his fixed eyes like emeralds, glinting unnaturally in the dark.
“You hate him. You’ve made that perfectly clear, so why not just kill him?” I ask, because I’m honestly curious. I don’t think his level of loathing has been a farce.
Slade’s eyes go shuttered. “Believe it or not, I don’t go around killing without thought. He’s a king. If I were to end him, especially using my magic, there would be implications to that, which would set off a chain of events. He rules people, and right now, he’s making plays to rule even more. But sometimes, if you cut off the head of a monster, two more crop up.”
Realization dawns. “You’re worried that if Midas weren’t king, someone even worse would take his place?”
He gives me a terse nod. “Better to play the game and be ten moves ahead of him, to learn his weaknesses and to cut him where it hurts. If I simply lashed out and killed him, I’d have more than just his kingdom to worry about. I’d have the other royals banding against me. They’re nervous enough about my reign and my magic as it is. I have the wellbeing of my own people to consider. No one likes a rotten king, but it’s my people who would suffer, as well as the innocents in the other kingdoms if any of the monarchs strike out against me and force war.”
I can see the shifting marks of his power move beneath his skin, each one as thin as a hair strand. They move up his neck and disappear beneath his stubble like fishing line dipping beneath water.
I’ve offended him, that much is clear. And for a split second, I see the male beneath the crown. I see the way the world perceives him and the damage that can do to a person. If anyone knows about being made notorious, about being made into a thing, it’s me.
My chest hurts all of a sudden, my resolve jabbed-through with little pinpricks of pain.
His voice lowers, eyes bright and sharp, poking even more holes through me. “You think I wanted to sit there and do nothing while that asshole spoke to you that way?” he bites out. “You think I enjoyed his childish power play by ordering you to be carried to that harp? I wanted to leap over the table and crush his throat with my bare hands.”
As if to demonstrate his words, he lifts his arm, and his palm wraps around my neck. Except he doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t hurt. His dark words coil around my thumping heartbeat, while his touch encompasses my throat. His thumb brushes against my drumming pulse, not in a threat, but as a caress.
It takes a lot of willpower not to let my eyes flutter closed at the intimate touch, not to lean into his chest, though I feel the warmth of it like a blanket around my body. Aside from Midas, he’s the only person who touches me.