Page 87 of The Midnight King

“What sort of fun?” I blink at her, feigning innocence.

“Don’t look at me like that, not after you asked me tostepon you,” she says. “Your father thinks you’re this gentle, sweet soul, and you are, but you’re also a degenerate scoundrel. A depraved, lecherous fiend.”

“I like it when you call me names,” I murmur.

Her gaze lingers on my mouth with the expression of entranced desire she used to give the King during our dalliances. She’s looking atmewith the same reckless abandon, that irresistible need.

“To be clear,” I whisper, “I love you.”

“I know.”

She doesn’t say it back to me, not yet, and I’m willing to wait as long as I must—years, perhaps, until she trusts me enough. But for now, I’m too weary to talk any more. Despite my father’s magic, my body has been ravaged, and it demands rest to complete the healing process.

Celinda seems to understand my need for sleep. She starts to rise from the bed, probably assuming I want her to leave. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I catch her arm. “Please. Stay with me.”

With a relieved sigh, she sinks back onto the bed and lies down, resting her golden head on my shoulder and placing her fingers on my chest. It’s a position of quiet trust, and for a moment I’m certain my heart will burst with joy.

And then she says, with soft certainty in her tone, “I love you.”

I suck in a quick breath, stunned by the agony of happiness. “After everything I did?”

“Yes.”

Devotion, adoration, and gratitude beyond words swell in my chest. Somehow I manage to say, “For the rest of my life, I will strive to be worthy of your love.”

Celinda snuggles closer to me, a contented sighescaping her lips. “You already are.”