Page 124 of Heartbreak Prince

“He wasn’t himself last night either. After you left, he was simply awful. And then he—” Her eyes go blank for a moment, and her mouth falls open, but no sound emerges.

“Roxalin?” I urge. “What happened to your brother?”

“He went to sleep, and then his back sprouted these long tentacles, all black and bristling, like thorny vines,” she recounts in a dreamy tone. “And each vine had a face full of teeth on the end. Like the monsters you told us about, the ones in the Red Mountains. I had to dig them out of his back, one at a time. He’ll be all right now. He just needs a little rest.” She smiles again, wider. “I’ll lie here with him for a bit.”

“Syth,” says Vawn hoarsely.

“Go,” I reply. “I’ve got this.”

He dashes out of the room, stumbling over several things as he crosses the parlor. I hear him retching distantly—probably in the hall.

At the sound, Roxalin seems to forget she was headed to the bed to lie down. She turns back to me, looking dazed. “Why did Vawn leave?”

A better woman might play along, might coddle her fragile mind and give her time to accept the truth when she’s ready. But I cannot forget how her ancestors hunted the moharganth, wrecked their ecosystem, and then demanded that another kingdom save their surviving people, at the cost of my prince’s body and soul.

She might not be solely responsible for the state of this country or her own state of mind, but she has made no attempt to remedy any of it. Instead she surrounded herself with playthings and sank into the cesspool of her perverted connection to her abusive brother.

I blame him more. But I blame her too.

“Vawn left because the stink of your brother’s corpse is too awful,” I say bluntly. “You must have been in some sort of drug-induced nightmare, because you killed him.”

“No.” Her eyes fill with tears and her voice trembles. “No, I saved him.”

“He’s dead, Roxalin. Look at his corpse. Look at the mess you made of him—of everything.” I gesture to the body and to the room. “You can accept what you did, get out of this prison you’ve made for yourself, and start over clean—or you can deny it all, and what’s left of your mind will shatter.”

Her features turn rigid, and a vein pulses in her temple. “How dare you speak to me like this? I’ll have your head, you impertinent little shit. Do you think I don’t know who lured our Vawn away last night?”

“He’s not yours.” The smile I give her is cruel, triumphant. It’s my laugh in the face of everyone who thought I was lesser or unworthy—even myself. “The prince is mine.”

I know, even as I speak those words, that they will drive her mad. I know that I am goading her into attacking me. And I care as little as if I bore glyphs of apathy on every nail I possess.

I antagonize her on purpose, and it works.

She snatches something from amid the mess—probably the object she used on her brother—and with a furious shriek, she leaps at me.

I welcome her with my knife.

Liege Roxalin chokes, hanging over my shoulder, my blade buried in her gut. Whatever she was holding drops from her fingers with a muffled thump into the clutter.

I wrap my other arm around her and wait while she gasps and shudders. She’s nothing but bones and skin and weakness, and in those final moments, I feel a flutter of pity for her. She was slight as a butterfly’s wing, and easily overcome.

And then it’s over.

The Stewardess rushes in as Roxalin releases her final, rattling breath, as her lungs push out the last tiny bubbles of air.

I lay the Liege down amid the treasures that cover her bedroom floor. “She attacked me,” I tell Inaya. “I had to stop her, or she might have hurt the prince. And she killed her brother.”

The Stewardess surveys the room, her face settling into lines of peaceful determination. “So be it. I discovered his death this morning, and I witnessed hers just now. I will swear that I saw her attack you.”

I meet her gaze and discover no sorrow there, only relief. Her life in this place, watching the kingdom crumble and being powerless to stop it, must have been wretched.

“The betrothal contract—” I begin.

“It stands,” she says. “In Tularesk, a betrothal is binding. Your prince, as the sworn intended of our Lieges, inherits their throne and the rulership of the Tularesk people.”

“But surely there is someone else in line for the throne,” I say. “Some distant relative—”

“There is not. And even if there were, they would not step forward to claim responsibility for this wretched kingdom and this decrepit palace. There are no riches left, no treasures except these moldering belongings and the handful of diamonds promised to Belavrin. Everything else is gone.”