Page 57 of These Vile Hearts

Her hands grip her mug so tight, I worry it will shatter. “My dad passed away when I was ten. Both of my parents did, actually.”

There’s something dark and unspoken in her words. I try to read her face, but it has gone dangerously blank.

“I’m sorry…” Dryads don’t have parents, but I assume losing them feels the same as when we lose siblings. “Who cared for you after that?”

Maddox takes a deep drink of the bitter liquid, still avoiding eye contact. “ ‘Cared for’ is a stretch. I lived in many homes, bounced around from house to house, foster parent to foster parent. I never stayed in one place very long. But I suppose it’s partly my fault I was never adopted.”

Adopted.The word surrounds me like a dense fog. “What do you mean it was your fault?”

Her eyes glint in the dim lavender light cast by Magesté’s nightshade sign. “I didn’t make things easy for the families I lived with. I missed my mom and dad, and I was furious about the cards I’d been dealt. So I acted out. I talked back to my foster parents, broke things I knew were important to them, picked on their most treasured bio children. Then, when I got a little older, I snuck guys and girls into my room and did things I shouldn’t have with them in my bed. I stole things, drank alcohol, broke curfew, snuck out, had sex. I was a Bad Child.”

Something shifts in my chest. Something that makes me clear my throat and look down. “Sounds to me like you were a lonely child.”

A glimmer of pain turns her silver irises a stormy gray. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t cursed like your brother. But I suppose I might as well have been.”

“Are you still lonely?”

Silver eyes flash up to mine, something unreadable in their depths. Her hands cradle the mug like it’s a living thing. “I was sharing an apartment with my best friend for a while. But, uh…he just moved to San Francisco. The people I hung around were mostly hiscoworkers and friends.” A disarming thought appears to strike her as she frowns more deeply. “So, yeah. I guess I still am.”

“I know a few ironfae who live in that city.” Though introducing Maddox to them would likely do more harm than good. “We could visit if you’d like. Meet up with your friend.”

Wonder if her friend has the Sight, too, or crashes dryad parties like she does.

“No.” The word is firm and full of unspoken something. Hurt, perhaps. Or regret. “That wouldn’t be a good idea.” Suddenly, her gaze is unfocused, far away from here, caught up in some dark musing.

Well, this is going swimmingly. I bring her coffee and then force her to relive her darkest memories and face her miserable present. She’s probably moments away from falling for me.

No wonder she seeks the company of dryads so frequently.

I clear my throat. “Shall I open the wine?”

“Probably safest.”

Placing my palm over the opening, I slowly lift my hand. The cork follows as if it’s the positive end of the magnet and my palm is the negative. It leaves the neck with a soft pop, releasing the intoxicating scent of cherries and spices into the air between us.

“You know,” she says, “if you ever get bored of trees, you could make a killing as a magician in the mortal world.”

I pour myself a hearty goblet full of the deep red liquid. “I could only perform my act near Sylveris if I wanted it to be anything extraordinary.”

“Why?”

I tilt my head to the side, assessing her as I swirl the wine. She claims to know of dryads, attends their parties. Yet she doesn’t know some of our most basic magic. Her back straightens, but she doesn’t look away. “Because,” I say finally, “a dryad’s magic is tied to their heartwood. The farther they venture, the weaker it becomes. Until, eventually, it fizzles out entirely.”

As I lift the wine toward my mouth, Tamarind takes a step forward, holding up his hand. “Wait, Your—Your Majesty.” I pause, and he clears his throat. “Are you certain it is safe?”

Maddox shifts her focus to Tamarind. “You think I would be foolish enough to poison the king in your presence?”

Tamarind doesn’t look at her, attention focused solely on me.

Swirling the goblet again, I say, “Did you poison this wine, Maddox?”

She inclines her chin, wearing the ghost of a smile. “Why don’t you drink it and find out.”

“Seems the only way.” I lift the goblet to my mouth again, and Tamarind closes the distance between us, snatching it from my hand. Red liquid sloshes over the side, soaking my gray breeches. Cursing, I stand to full height, still half a head shorter than my guard. “Have you forgotten yourself, Tamarind?”

Tam’s statuesque composure fractures, broad shoulders bowing forward. I get the overwhelming desire to apologize, to right him, but I resist. I’m supposed to be king, and he’s supposed to be my dutiful guard. Not my painfully loyal friend who steps over the line from time to time. His eyes connect with mine, a fierce protectiveness in their copper depths—the embers of our bonfire friendship glowing a bit more brightly.

“Stand down, Tamarind,” I warn.