Page 32 of These Vile Hearts
I can see my heartbeat on the edge of my vision. Pulsing. It feels like the first time I tried to give myself an insulin injection all on my own, hovering the needle above the skin and wincing each time I attempted to jab it in. Stopped by a mental block.
Suddenly, he pushes away from the railing, threading his right arm through my left, stepping back and drawing me along with him. “Shall we make ourselves more comfortable?”
My stomach drops like I’ve just jumped out of the back of an airplane without a parachute. Like I’ve pulled him with me. Like I know we’re going to splatter all over the ground when we land.
The king doesn’t appear to notice me struggling to pull my hand out of my pocket, leaving the damned dagger behind again. Sliding his arm from mine, he sinks onto the chaise, right beside the curving back of the chair. The only open space is on his left side, which effectively ruins my chances of secretly unsheathing my blade.
I hesitate.
The king flashes me a charming half grin, but something feels fake about it. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”
This sounds like a worn-out mantra, like he’s said it before. Many times.
“I’m not afraid.”
A lie I’ve told before. Many times.
Instead of taking the seat to his left, I shift to stand before him, leaning down and placing my hands on either side of his mask.
He stiffens but doesn’t move. “What are you doing?”
“I’m taking off your mask,” I tell him, low and quiet. A hunter reassuring a fox while holding a gun behind her back.
Unhooking the silken fabric, I let his mask fall to the ground. Without the disguise, his dangerous edges soften, even with those rough black horns that curl back like a ram’s, and that razor-edge jaw. His eyes hold every ounce of vulnerability he’s attempted to lock inside. I wonder if that’s what people see when they look at me after I’ve locked myself down. Can they see through the windows even when they’ve been slammed shut?
Stroking my thumbs across his cheekbones, I say, “Now it’s your turn to take off your mask.”
His throat bobs. “I believe you just did that for me.”
“I mean yourothermask. The invisible one. The one you always wear unless no one is watching.”
The king’s lips part, the crease between his brow softening as his guard drops like a drawbridge. Exposed and defenseless. Right where I need him.
“There you are,” I whisper, moving closer, giving him time to turn away. He doesn’t.
I don’t kiss him immediately. I press my forehead to his, stroking my left hand down the side of his face. His eyes close, and he looses a breath. Even dryad kings are predictable, I guess.
My right hand slithers back into my pocket, finally pulling the dagger free of its sheath.Do it, I urge my conscience. This isn’t the time for second thoughts or moral pondering.Do it.My pulse screams in my ears, or maybe that’shispulse. My telltale heart hidden beneath the floorboards.
My fist tightens around the blade as my lips brush against the king’s. He breathes me in.
Do it.
My bicep flexes. His hand moves up to cup the back of my neck. Gentle. Delicate.
Monsters aren’t supposed to be delicate.
Do it.
But the queen was wrong about the king’s subjects worshiping him. She said he was arrogant and told easy lies. Drosera said he liked to play sick sexual games with mortals, but his trembling hands say otherwise. What if they were wrong? What if the Redwood King is not as cruel as they thought? What if—
Do it.
The Myrtle Queen said he was self-serving. Selfish. So selfish. This isso selfish. I’m doing this for my own self-serving desires. Spilling someone else’s blood to cure my own.
How did my daddo it?
I clutch the dagger behind my back. The king’s hands move up into my hair, his thumbs sweeping along my jawline. His kiss is a waltz. My grip on the dagger slackens.
