Page 12 of Fated to the Wicked King

Alone.

I stared at the ceiling for a moment, then blew out a huge breath.

Damn.

Sitting up, I shifted to plant my feet on the floor. I put a cold hand to my clammy forehead, shaking my head as I briefly surveyed my loft.

Empty. Quiet.

Scant streaks of sunlight broke through the overcast sky outside, filtering in through the thick curtains hung against my windows. It was morning.

Damn it all.

It was a dream.

Another dream of him.

It was true that he had come for me that one night some months ago, from the kingdom that had suddenly become his, vowing those words of comfort, of reassurance, a haunting, ominous imploration.

But never again.

And each time that he’d come again since had all been in my dreams, my imagination.

I wrapped my arms around myself. The ghost of his warmth lingered on my skin, in my mind, his gentle touch, the way he held me—firm, possessive, certain.

—my very, very vivid imagination.

I shook my head to clear it of the dream fragments. Of the ridiculous, pointless yearning. I surely knew better than this. Almost absently, I reached for my jeweled hairpin on the table to fix my hair. Turning my head to one side, I studied the emerald green adorning my silver-white hair in the small mirror by my bed.

He had given me this last gift that same night as well. I’d once thought it was a token of his love. Perhaps it was the only remnant that any such thing ever existed between us. I told myself I didn’t wear it for that reason, but that it was simply convenient. I told myself a lot of things.

My heartbeat steadied to normal in my chest.

Hollow. Incomplete.

A fresh ache stung my chest.

That man was gone.

I shook my head again, more vigorously this time.

Snap out of it.

It was perfectly irrational to lament what once was, but which cannot be again.

Straightening, I smoothed down my clothes. The Duchess’s foofy gown, depleted of its magic, had deflated into a plain green housedress as soon as I’d returned last night.

I hadn’t heard from or seen Chez or the Duchess since before the ball.

I imagined they would come knocking on my door or the magic mirror shortly with all sorts of nosy questions. Even more so, if they’d gotten even a whiff of the riot that had broken out in the evening.

I saved his life again. Why? I smacked my palm against my forehead several times. Why did I do that? Why couldn’t I stop myself doing that? I really must have gone mad as well.

I shuffled toward the little kitchen, nearly tripping over my boot on the floor where I had carelessly tossed it last night, having given up my other one as lost. I’d never be able to wear them again.

I was reaching over to warm up the engine, which ran my coffee machine, when there was an insistent knocking on the front door. I almost rolled my eyes.

Figured.