Page 30 of These Vile Hearts

I slide my hand down my face, propping my chin on my knuckles. “Perhaps I should find out.”

As if she feels her potential fate clicking into place, the girl dressed in gold looks up at me, silver eyes widening fractionally as they find me watching her.

I smile, lifting my glass of wine in a silent toast.

9

Maddox

The king is all angles and shades of brown—a color I’ve always associated with warmth and comfort. Yet there’s nothing warm or comfortable about this man. Horns like a devil’s. Hair like the bark of a felled redwood tree. Eyes like a mahogany dagger through the heart.

And his eyes are on me.

My tongue is still tingling from my low blood sugar. Though I likely overshot things with all those tarts. Giving myself some insulin to counterbalance the sugar would be a marvelous idea, but I don’t have the time, not while the king’s gaze remains locked with mine.

Moving through the mass of spinning dancers is a challenge I hadn’t anticipated. Every step forward nearly gets me hit by a tail or trodden on by a clawed foot or whisked into a fairy waltz. I swear, I will whip this dagger out if someone so much astriesto make me—

“Dance, golden girl!” a voice shouts. “Why are you standing there? Dance!”

A dryad with eyes the amber of tree sap and pine-green hairerupts from the dance floor, wrapping a hand around my waist and sweeping me off my path.

I’ve never waltzed before, but I’m fairly certain this isnota waltz. In another time, another world, Javen and I would be out here making absolute fools of ourselves like we did at the closest gay bar, in Eugene. But this isn’t another time, and it’sthisworld. A world where cruel magic and calculating dryads are commonplace. A world where dazed mortals wear collars. A world where I will turn from a homeless diabetic to a murderer.

I don’t have time to dance.

The dryad doesn’t budge as I push against him, attempting to wriggle out of his ironclad grip.

“What sort of dance is this?” he asks with a Cheshire grin, pulling me along in an arc across the smooth wooden floor. “Mortal dancing is so odd, isn’t it? Care to teach me?”

I whip my head left and right, seeking a way out. I can’t find my voice; we’re moving so fast.

Then everything stops.

“Not tonight, Archer,” comes a familiar voice.

The dryad releases me immediately and takes a step back, bowing.“Your Highness.”

Whirling around, I find the king standing before us in the center of the dance floor. He holds out a hand to me. “Care to not dance?”

I glance over my shoulder, but Archer has already disappeared into the swirling mass. Allowing myself one single second to put on my invisible mask beneath my literal one, I offer the king a coy grin. “I would love to not dance.”

Taking his hand, I join him in crossing the dance floor, expecting an inevitable collision, but the dancers part around us like water bypassing a sharp stone.

He swipes a glass off a tray carried by a server caught up in the dancing, not spilling a drop. “Care for a drink?”

Don’t drink the wine.

“I’m not much of a drinker.”

“What are you?” He drops my hand as we make it off the treacherous dance floor. “If not a drinker.”

I glance to the empty throne at the top of the staircase carved from the massive tree invading the room. If he goes back up there, who knows if I’ll get another chance to slice his throat. My pulse stutters.

Canting my head, I peer up at him through my lashes, lowering my voice to a hopefully seductive murmur. “Why don’t you take me somewhere private and find out.” Guess I’m driving this disaster train down the femme fatale track. Is there really any other route to go when you have glitter-covered cleavage and a dagger strapped to your thigh?

Something flickers across the visible half of the king’s face. He glances up to his empty throne before taking a deep drink of his wine, as if buying time.

Doubt creeps like an unwelcome guest through my mind. Before he can talk himself out of it, I add, “I’m sure your subjects can go on dancing without you watching over them.”