Page 31 of These Vile Hearts

His right brow lifts. “My subjects?”

Shit.Was that somehow offensive? Did I just word vomit my ignorant mortal-ness all over him? Hopefully, the harder I flirt, the less likely he is to hang my body from the nearest sturdy branch. “Your followers. The members of your kingdom. Whatever you prefer to call them.”

“Members of”—his eyes narrow at me for a long moment before flicking up to his throne again—“my kingdom.”

My heart speeds as I wait for the king to order his guards to seize me or run me through with a golden spear. Though, despite Drosera’s remarks about the heavily guarded king, there are currently no guards around.

“Perhaps you are right,” he says in a voice so low I can barely make out his words. “My subjects can go on without me for a time. I am the king, after all.”

My hand moves to my throat, fingering the golden pendant in the shape of a teardrop. “Know of any dark corners we can tuck ourselves into?”

“A few.”

He offers a hand to me again, which I take with a smile. This time he doesn’t let go as we move through the party. Masked fae practically leap out of the way if we step near, two snakes winding through a field of mice. Seems the Myrtle Queen was misinformed about the reverence the king’s subjects hold for him. It’s almost as though they look at him infearrather than admiration.

My right hand ventures into the bottomless pocket of my dress, stroking two fingers along the cold hilt of the sheathed dagger.

We duck into the shadows behind an immense sculpture of shattered rubies pieced back together in the shape of a rose. A spiral staircase emerges. The king relinquishes my hand, making his way up the coil of stairs. I tilt my head back, neck cracking from the awkward angle. I can’t see the top, but I follow him anyhow.

We climb and climb and climb some fucking more. My chest screeches for air, and my legs feel as though someone is attempting to surgically remove the muscles from my femurs. The tightness of this bodice does nothing but work against me, keeping my lungs from fully expanding. If my blood sugar were still low, this would be near impossible. But I have a feeling it’s climbing right along with me.

The staircase lets out onto a deeply recessed balcony. An oversized chaise longue the color of a dying rose takes up a third of the cramped space, and twinkling lights stream through a multicolored stained-glass window. Upon second glance, I realize the lights are actually bioluminescent pixies, as a handful of them are now pressing their tiny faces against the glass to peek in at us.

The king moves to the balustrade overlooking the masque far below, resting his forearms on the railing. I approach his side, focusing ninety percent of my energy on breathing without panting. The other ten percent of my mind is on the dagger.

“During masques and revelries of the past, when I was just a sapling, I would hide up here,” he tells me. “I’d watch my brother as he welcomed guests from all across Sylveris to our kingdom.”

His brother—aka, the king my father killed. Sixty percent of my brain is on the dagger now. I start to slide my hand into my pocket, but he speaks again, and I pull it right back out.

Music ascends, distorting into something different up here, almost celestial. A network of mezzanines and verandas transect my view of the dancers below. The height is dizzying.

Breathe.In and fucking out.

“I’ve always thought it seemed so dull to be king,” he says. “Sitting there on that throne while everyone else danced and enjoyed themselves.”

His jaw tightens. Square and sharp, like I could cut myself on the edge of it.

My hands grip more tightly around the rail. “And now?”

“Now?”

“Now thatyou’reking, what do you think?” I say. “Has anything changed?”

There’s a subtle shift in his expression. He blinks more forcefully, just once, and casts his eyes down. Someone less observant wouldn’t notice.

“Everything has changed.”

What an answer. I refrain from rolling my eyes. “Doesn’t it always change?”

“What?”

“Everything.”

He almost smiles. “Regrettably, no. Some things stay rooted in place for centuries.”

I should do it now, before I lose my nerve. We’re alone up here. Completely and utterly alone. Even the pixies have moved away from the colored glass. Sliding my right hand from the rail, I stuff it into my pocket. My fingers are trembling, and for once it’s not from my blood sugar.

Creeping my hand down as casually as I can, I wrap my fingers around the handle of the blade. All it will take is one fluid motion. Like throwing an axe at a bull’s-eye. I zone in on his throat. Just one slash and my end of the pact is done.