Page 60 of These Vile Hearts

“No.”I move to the table to swipe up two of the same sugary pastries he offered me the night of the treetop masquerade, stuffing them in my mouth as he watches. These have plenty of carbs, but they aren’tfastenough. I need straight-up sugar.

Escaping to the kitchen, I rummage through the food pantry.Dryads don’t exactly keep Skittles and fruit snacks around. It reminds me of my foster placement with a woman who had only raw, vegan everything. I had to treat my lows with bananas because she didn’t believe in processed food, and “fruit has plenty of natural sugar in it.” For a while, she was under the impression that she could cure me if I followed her lifestyle. I ended up in the hospital with diabetic ketoacidosis and got taken away from her soon after that.

My hand knocks into a jar of sugar crystals that look like shattered fragments of rock candy. I pull down the container, prying open the lid. Grabbing a handful, I pop them into my mouth, crunching down on the saccharine shards.

Castor is quiet a long moment, watching me. “Youseemdrunk.”

“Be right back.” Shambling to my bedroom, I shut the door behind me. The insulin I took earlier is still on the small table beside my bed. My stomach swoops like I’ve just missed a step.

Taking up the vial, I stare at the bright orange top with blurry eyes.Fuck.I took thewronginsulin. I was supposed to inject fifteen units oflong-acting to keep my blood sugar steady throughout the night. But I didn’t take that. No, like a dumbass, I took the insulin that covers meals and corrects highs and actsfast. The only way to fix this error…is to eat. Eat literally all the things.

I was going to test my blood sugar in here, but there’s no point now. I already know it’s dive-bombing to the bottom of a sea of insulin, slowly drowning.

Fury adds to the tremors in my hands. Fifteen units of wasted insulin. I let out a single “FUCK,” the word bouncing off the wooden walls.

Castor’s voice echoes from the kitchen. “I didn’t realize my presence was quite so unwelcome.”

Reemerging from my room, I snatch up the jar of sugar crystals and return to the table, set with a romantic dessert for two.

“Where’s Tamarind?” I ask brusquely, scarfing down anothertart. For once the reaper’s presence would be welcome, to keep the king occupied while I feed the insulin raging in my veins. Like sprinkling dirt on a fire a little bit at a time.

“He’s upstairs.” Castor still seems visibly taken aback by my odd behavior. “I asked him to give us some time alone. I thought you would…like that?”

Yes, I would have liked that very much—if I were not the biggest idiot in this forest.

“Why do you only have one guard anyway?” Pulling the jar of sugar crystals in front of me, I rest my chin in the cradle of my palm, waiting for the tremors to return. My brain is still in a fog, but the sugar seems to have fed the insulin monster for now.

“Tamarind has the capabilities of a dozen guards all on his own.” Castor takes the seat across from me. “It becomes more of a parade when you walk the streets with a royal entourage.”

“I feel like everything is backward here. You’re the king, yet you spend more time at Magesté than sitting on your throne. You have only one guard.” I look up to the small circlet at the top of his forehead. “And your crown is shockingly small for someone who is supposed to be infatuated with gold.”

“It’s not the size of the crown that matters, but how you wield its power.”

I swallow a laugh and nearly choke on another tart.

His brow arches, as if he’s genuinely confused. “What?”

“No, I agree. Size doesn’t matter. It’s how you use it. And you know how to use that crownrealwell, I bet.”

His frown deepens. “What…?”

“Nothing.”

“Mortals are so odd.”

“Everyone is odd to someone.”

The faintest glimmer of a smile lifts the corner of his lips. “Cyperus used to say something like that.”

Cyperus—the king my father killed. A feather of guilt flutters in my chest.

“What was he like?”Tell me he deserved it.

Castor’s face brightens a fraction. “Cy could turn anything into a story. I would point out a blue-winged butterfly and he would say, ‘Have you heard the tale of the fat blue caterpillar, Castor?’ Obviously, I hadn’t, because he was making it up as he went. So he’d weave some grand tale right on the spot. He could tell stories about anything.”

“Reminds me of my dad,” I say absently.

My dad. The man who killed the king who told his little brother stories about fat blue caterpillars.