Chapter 42: Dessert - The Shadow of a Vicious King

POV: E

Dessert is served.

The rich taste of venison still lingers on my tongue, chased away by wine and too many questions. Lanterns burn brightly overhead, their bluish glow powered by something other than combustible oil. Max is tense beside me, her fingers curled tightly around the stem of her dessert wine glass.

“Those lanterns are so beautiful,” she remarks, her eyes angled toward the ceiling. “What are they made of?”

The King of Light follows her gaze, and a serene smile curls his lips. “Souls.”

Max chokes on a mouthful of wine. “Pardon me?”

“Those lanterns contain the souls of those who were not fit to meet the gods,” Ethan explains.

Max raises a brow, her bottom lip wet and shiny from her drink. “Because they were too damaged, you mean?”

He nods, but the hollow space beneath my breastbone squirms.

Damaged. Broken. Impure.

My instincts tell me those terms become subjective very quickly in a place like this.

My mind flashes back to the lantern I smashed over Luther’s head.

I always thought I was attuned to it somehow, that it contained my spirit, but it never gleamed with that otherworldly blue. Never betrayed the presence of a soul inside.

And I left it behind without issue.

My heart gives a forlorn squeeze, and for the first time, I finally believe that maybe, maybe, I'm not dead.

They've told me numerous times now, but a part of me kept holding back. Something in me shifts the same way my wings did—slow, insistent, impossible to ignore. It isn’t a clear memory, but a current stirring beneath the surface. A whole life lived and forgotten swirls in the black waters of my subconscious, splashes of recognition pulling at my gut in ways I can’t explain.

My father jolts me out of my thoughts, bracing a hand on my shoulder. “You could have it all back, son. Your name, your crown—” He stops abruptly and smiles. “Welcome home.”

Then he rises, leaving his chocolate mousse untouched. “We can pick this up tomorrow morning. I will make arrangements for the vow dissolution spell to be held at once, and afterwards, we will petition the Red Queen for your friend’s return, Miss Lorntre. Good night.”

Welcome home…

I have this intuition that, whenever I came home, there were rules I obeyed without question. Truths that governed my life.

I can’t remember what they were.

I hate that my elusive past still has a hold over me. It keeps reaching into my present, shaping my instincts, pulling me in directions I don’t understand, making me feel like a puppet, its strings being toyed with by a stranger.

The intrusive feeling that I’ve forgotten something that changes everything lingers as though it’s waiting for me to catch up to it, whether I want to or not.

Max tears her gaze away from the lanterns and drops her silk napkin over her untouched dessert plate.

Her chair screeches as she stands.

“This is…macabre. Your father betrayed my mother, and yet he talks about her like he merely lost touch with an old lover and tried to take in her orphaned child. He’s dangerous,” she breathes.

Her warning echoes the unease inside me, and I nod.

“And we’ll get to the bottom of it, but he promised to save Nick. That’s a good start.”

She paces the dining room back and forth. “Only if I agree to dissolve your link to Willow. What if the old you wouldn’t want me to do it? You agreed to marry her, after all.”

I catch her in my arms and caress her bare shoulders. “Max. I married a gay woman who only agreed to link our fates to appease her family. I'd say that, out of all the scenarios we could have imagined, that one lets me completely off the hook.”

“You’re only saying that because you want us to be together. It’s too convenient.”

She folds her arms, luring my gaze down to her cleavage.

Her white dress molds her curves and flows all the way to the floor. Gold ropes trace the length of her bare back, crossing between her shoulder blades and cinching at her waist before falling over her backside, weighed down by heavy pearls. Her movements turn the white translucent and the gold molten.

It should make her look fragile and delicate.

Instead, it only draws attention to everything stubborn and untamable about her. To the freckles dusting her shoulders and the wild red braid falling to her waist.

Max carries herself like she's wearing armor rather than one of the most see-through dresses I've ever seen.

“It’s too convenient,” she says, shaking her head.

“You think he’s lying?”

“Fae can’t lie. But you were probably fine with this marriage. It probably suited you to fuck whoever you wanted on the side.”

She walks away from me, and I press my lips together.

“That was before you,” I say. “If Willow is the one who destroyed the Eternal Chalice and plunged Faerie into war, isn’t she dangerous? Our priority should be to save Nick, at any cost. Breaking some old, dishonest wedding vows I can’t remember isn’t such an imposition, is it?”

“I need to think.”

She heads out of the dining room, and my selfish heart bleeds at the sight of her retreating.

She sees straight through me.

I’m cheering for my so-called wedding vows to be broken because I’m tired of our relationship carrying an expiration date neither of us can read. I want to marry Max and give her everything she deserves, not spend eternity linked to someone else.

I’m a bastard, but I can’t help chasing after her.

I need her to know our story is far from over.

I catch up to her at a run and drag a hand down the golden ropes hanging at her back.

“Let me come with you,” I say. “If only just to hold you.”

“No.” She picks up the pace, walking briskly toward the throne room, but her steps falter as we enter.

The four walls are made entirely of mirrors, and a myriad of reflections stare back at us. Her in her sinful dress. Me in my matching ivory jacket and trousers.

“Oh my gods.” Her mouth falls open, and she covers her eyes with her hand, flushing scarlet.

I peel it off with a smile. “Are you timid now, little fox?”

She spins around and rests an open palm against my chest, her fingers tangling in my buttoned jacket. “Look. We both know what will happen if you come to my room.”

I peck her cheek mischievously. “All the more reason.”

Her eyes close for a beat, and that tiny crack in her resolve is my undoing.

The kiss is soft at first, easing the burden of finding out I have a wife. A father. A kingdom. Then it deepens, and every thought in my head scatters.

Max fills my blood. The way she tilts toward me without realizing it. The way she sighs as though she thinks I’m an ass, yet somehow thinks the same of herself for being this close to giving in. How her chin tilts upward, as though she can bluff her way into falling out of love with me.

My need for her only grows. Every touch feeds it. Every stolen second leaves me plotting for more.

Always more.

There is no amount of her that feels like enough.

I want mornings.

I want years.

I want every version of her that exists across every possible future.

I crave things I was never meant to have, and a dark shard twists inside me.

Max tears herself away. “Stop kissing me like that,” she cries out, pleading.

“Like what?” I ask innocently.

“Like you don’t mind burning the world down to have me.”

I run my thumb down her lips. “You are my world, Max. Everything else can burn.”

The sight of us panting hard in the mirror fills me with heat and destroys what little remains of my good intentions. The pressure in my groin increases, taunting my demon out to play.

Our second kiss lasts longer.

Her breasts peak beneath the airy Fae dress, and I bend down to taste them through the fabric. She makes a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan and presses both hands flat against my chest.

“Stop.”

I stop, but she doesn’t move to leave, her gaze glued to our reflection.

“You shouldn’t have kissed me,” she scolds.

I tilt her chin up and peck her jaw.

“You kissed me back,” I tease.

Her eyes narrow. She runs a hand through my hair, tugging on it, then studies the result in the mirror. “You just had to look like fucking Prince Charming.”

“Look who’s talking. Have you seen your dress?”

I spin her around and run my hands up and down her sides. She feasts on the sight of me as I cup her breasts, kneading them through the pliable fabric, the weight of them fucking glorious. “Don’t you like it when I kiss you?”

I meet her gaze in the mirror.

“I love it.”

Her admission is breathy and winded.

“Then what’s the problem? Are you afraid of that dream-stalker showing up? Because I won’t let him touch you again. Shadows perish in the light, Max.”

She doesn't answer. Instead, her gaze drops to the floor, and her bottom lip disappears between her teeth.

I know that look.

It's the look she gets whenever she's about to tell me something I won't like.

“There’s no one else,” she admits softly. “That shadow—it’s you.”

My nose wrinkles unhappily. “Me?”

“The you…from before. The one who grew up in this place.”

My chest heaves, my spine burning with both envy and pride.

“Don’t you dream of him almost every night?” I croak.

It’s not really a question, but a reminder. For both of us.

Lips pressed together, she nods. I bend down and devour her neck, nibbling and biting, the taste of burnt vanilla beans filling my senses.

“Remind me again how many times you let Ezra Lightbringer touch you?” I ask darkly.

The name is poison on my tongue.

I’m jealous of the man I used to be. Jealous and terrified.

The bastard doesn’t even exist anymore, and somehow he's still winning. Max dreams about him.

Not me.

Him.

I lift up her skirts, bunching the fabric at her navel, and strum her clit through the lace.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasps, her mouth parting beautifully.

“Here. Look how needy you are for me.”

My cock stiffens past the point of pain as she lets her head fall against my shoulder, abandoning herself, and her soft whimpers drive me right past the point of madness into pure, selfish hunger.

“I’m going to fuck you right here. And I want you to look me in the eye as I do.”

Her gaze falls to the throne, and her face changes. Her voice is cold all of a sudden. “I can’t— We can’t. Stop!”

She sinks her nails into my arms, and I reluctantly let her go, the skirt of her dress falling back into place.

When she meets my gaze in the mirror again, her expression is unreadable. Impregnable.

The usual push and pull, the usual dance, subsides. A moment ago, her objections felt negotiable. Fragile. They were merely barriers she wanted me to break, but now, they feel absolute.

“I need to be alone tonight. Goodnight, E.”

Her green eyes drop to the floor, her sorrowful, conflicted voice sending a fresh rush of adrenaline through my veins.

Every instinct screams at me to stop her.

Instead, I flatten my hands to my sides. “Err—good night, little fox,” I manage.

She turns and walks away, and silence settles over the throne room.

I stare at the place where she disappeared long after she’s gone, my pulse refusing to settle.

Pathetic.

Did I misread her first few protests? Or am I misreading this one, and she actually wants me to follow?

I don’t think so, though, and the rejection doesn’t sting nearly as much as the shame of ignoring her demands in the first place.

My gaze drifts to the stranger in the mirror.

I look a lot like my father.

Our builds are slightly different. He's tall but lean, whereas I've got broad shoulders. Our eyes are basically the same—maybe mine are a slightly deeper blue—but I inherited a softer nose, and my shorter hair falls past my ears in messy golden-white strands.

The Crown Prince's face.

The man everyone insists I used to be, the one making love to Max in her dreams.

I hate him.

I hate that every time I push too hard, every time I see hurt flash across Max's face, I wonder if this is who I've always been.

A selfish man.

A careless one.

The kind who would take and take until there was nothing left.

My reflection stares back at me with clenched fists, offering no answers. Only a handsome face and an empty mind.

And for the first time since arriving in the Sun Court, I find myself wondering whether Max is afraid of losing me, or of discovering exactly who I am.

* * *

I wake with a start, my head swimming with thoughts of Max, but her heat is still nowhere to be found. The bedroom smells of fresh cedar and citrus. Moonlight spills across carved furniture and gold-trimmed walls, catching on objects that should feel familiar, but nothing in this room belongs to the man I know myself to be.

I sigh into the pillow and shift onto my back, still half asleep, still irrationally bothered she insisted on sleeping apart.

If only she’d let me go with her to the women’s quarters…

The thought tightens low in my stomach, my cock stiffening beneath the luxurious ivory sheets.

The revelation of my alive-ness shocked us both, but my head is still spinning, and my body knows exactly what it craves. If Max were here, none of it would matter.

Not this curse that apparently stole decades of my life, or the legacy that belongs to me whether I want it or not. With her here, I wouldn’t have to suffer the unbearable weight of everything attached to the name Ezra Lightbringer. The prince. The son. The husband.

I would only have to brush her hair away from her face and kiss the corner of her jaw to forget.

I run my hand up and down my length, and chuckle quietly at the memory of my ghosts erections, and how uncomfortable they were. Still, I haven’t touched myself in decades, and my own hand is a very poor replacement for Max.

A feral instinct inside me bristles.

I can picture it too easily—pulling her into my lap beneath these ridiculously soft royal sheets, breathing in the scent of her skin, my hands tangled in her curls while the rest of the world dissolves into static.

I’d drown all that external noise in skin and heat and kisses.

Then a body slides over mine, soft thighs settling on either side of my waist, and I freeze.

Something’s wrong.

A mouth finds the space beneath my ear, a tongue dragging slowly along my neck, and I grab the woman’s hips instinctively, trying to stop her without hurting her.

The curtain of black hair fanning across my chest confirms that Max isn’t the one sneaking into my bed.

“Iris?” I gasp. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Hi,” she hums against my skin, completely unbothered as she closes a small hand around my erection. My teeth grind together as she slides down to the base and back up again with the confidence of someone who’s done it many, many times before.

I grip her wrist. “No.”

My stomach clenches as her wetness brushes the base of my cock. She’s naked.

“No! Stop!”

The words come out louder this time, panic climbing up my spine. I wrestle her off me, rolling her over to the mattress and slipping from her grasp, climbing out of bed.

I stumble backward toward the open balcony, my feet cold on the marble, and wrestle with the pants I wore at dinner to add a layer of fabric and dignity between us. Given her brazenness, layers are needed. Layers are good.

Moonlight catches her sprawled over the bed, utterly shameless.

And smiling.

A black eel curls around the elegant line of her spine, just as it did in the gardens and at dinner. If anything, it looks even more active in the dark, coiling and writhing in slow, serpentine motions. The parasite nestles itself deeper into her nervous system under my frozen stare with obscene audacity.

It’s not even bothering to try to hide anymore.

Iris’s hair spills wildly across the ivory sheets. She’s petite, almost deceptively delicate, but there’s nothing fragile about the way she moves. Every shift of her body carries the controlled grace of a trained fighter, fluid and predatory, even half reclined against silk pillows.

She doesn’t bother covering herself. If anything, there’s something deliberate and provocative in the openness of her posture, in the elegant curve of her spine. and the slow glide of her foot against my bed. It feels as though she’s offering me a familiar temptation and waiting for my instincts to take over.

“Iris,” I say carefully, unable to stop staring at the darkness twisting within her, “you shouldn’t be here. It’s wrong.”

She shifts slowly onto one elbow, her free hand drifting down her navel and between her legs in a lazy caress that feels more provocative because of how deliberate it is.

“That never stopped you before. Believe me, you love to play with this body,” she says.

Some traitorous, fractured part of my brain can almost picture it, and that horrifies me more than the ambush itself. The bedroom suddenly feels too small. Too crowded with furniture and memories that don't belong to me.

The shame of it burns.

For one terrible second, I can taste how easy it would be to fall backward into whatever Ezra used to be. I’m standing in the middle of someone else’s life wearing his skin, surrounded by ruins I don’t feel connected to but somehow still recognize.

It makes me feel unclean.

Disloyal.

Like I’m betraying Max just by standing here.

“I love Max.”

Iris slumps to her back with an eye roll. “Love?” she scoffs.

“Yes,” I croak. “I love her. I don’t know what happened with us before, but I’m loyal to Max, now.”

A grimace twists her mouth. “You’re not the Ezra I remember.”

The shift is so abrupt, it takes me a second to process it. One moment she's hurt, and the next she's furious.

She leaps off the bed and stalks toward me, two black daggers flaring to life in her palms.

I raise my hands in front of me. “Iris, please.”

Shadows pulse around her small frame. “No. You don't get to say my name like that, like you remember who I am, and who I was to you. I loved you, Ezra. I loved you more than I’ve ever loved anyone else. And much, much more than you loved me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” she huffs, pointing one of her shadow blades right at my Adam’s apple, which is impressive considering she can’t see me. “Well, if you don’t want to fuck, we’re going to have to play another game. I call this one: Remember When You Killed Me?”

My stomach drops. “What?”

“You killed me.” A flash of genuine grief cracks her anger. “And you don't even remember doing it.”

It feels horrifyingly intimate to be hunted by a woman who looks at me with equal parts fury and heartbreak.

“I don’t want to fight you,” I say quickly, but Iris lunges, and despite my invisibility, she tracks me frighteningly well.

She strikes, and the dagger passes inches from my throat.

I barely evade it, and her head tilts, probably listening for the scrape of my bare feet against the marble and the sounds of my rattled breaths.

Another attack follows, faster than the first.

This time, her blade draws a sharp sting through my pectoral muscle. Just a scratch, judging by the pain, but enough to tell me she’s not going to hold back.

“Enough,” I snap.

A smile stretches her lips. “You used to be better at this.”

She comes at me again, vicious now, and slices my shoulder and neck, deep enough for blood to stream down my chest.

“Fucking hells.”

My nostrils flare, the world narrowing into angles of attack, momentum, and instinct. Light illuminates the bedroom, piercing hot, and her shadow daggers flicker out of view. She misses her next attack, her blade disintegrating inches from my cheek.

Moving twice as far as before, I catch her right arm, pivot hard, and slam her against the wall. She cries out as I shackle both wrists above her head and pin her front to the tapestry, while her back faces me. I brace my knee between her legs to prevent her from kicking or escaping.

My muscles strain to hold her captive. “Enough! I don’t want to hurt you—but I will.”

She cranes her neck to look at me through her thick black lashes, and delight spreads across her face. “Then hurt me good.”

A bad bruise splits her bottom lip, and she licks the blood clean.

My light melts the blue freckles on her brown skin as she arches off the wall, flattening her chest to the tapestry to reach further back with her ass.

I let out a surprised groan when her naked backside makes contact with the tent in my pants, that part of my anatomy clearly not as appalled as I am by the turn the night has taken.

“There you are,” she purrs. “I take it back. You haven’t changed at all.”

A wave of nausea slithers through my belly.

I release her immediately, stumbling backward, and stare down at my hands while blood continues to slide down my bare chest. For one awful second, I can almost feel another version of myself standing beneath my skin, larger than me, colder than me, someone capable of hurting his lover on purpose.

Someone Iris expects to find again.

“I’m not him,” I say, though I’m no longer sure whether I’m trying to convince her or myself.

Then I flee.

I run because every second I stay in that room brings me closer to my past self. The bastard is catching up to me, and I can’t shake the intuition that, sooner or later, there won’t be enough of me left to stop him.