Page 62 of This Prince Is Not Charming

I wasn’t sure what I wanted more: to run away or to confess everything. Every sordid thought I’d ever pushed away. Every hope I’d dashed. Every touch and look that I’d mentally tucked into a treasure trove of memories I rarely allowed myself to think about.

“I think it’s my turn now. To lean in.” His lips moved toward mine, but he stopped before they pressed against my mouth, his breath warm, the scent of spiced wine permeating the air between us. “Are you going to meet me halfway?”

I wanted to. I’d barely allowed myself to believe it could ever happen, especially not after he became high prince.

Maybe it was the alcohol coursing through my blood, but all I knew was that my mouth was moving toward his, that his hand was threading through my curls and curving around the back of my head, that his other hand was tugging me onto his lap. And that my body was screaming at me that it needed this. It needed him.

“Well, well, well. Look at these two lovebirds.”

Cillian and I split apart at the voice, our chests heaving and hair mussed—had I done that to his hair at some point? Godwitches, I didn’t even know.

I blinked at the gargoyles hovering in the air in front of our tent.

When they weren’t at their normal guard posts on either side of a door, I had a hard time telling them apart, but I was fairly certain it was Tal who spoke first.

“I thought you two were just friends,” the gargoyle said, pointing a talon at us.

“We are,” I said quickly.

“That didn’t look like any friends I’ve ever seen,” Barty muttered under his breath.

“What do you know about friends?” Tal asked, wings spread out behind him and flapping.

My stomach lurched, and I suddenly felt ill as I looked over at Cillian. From the look of horror on his face, I assumed he was feeling the same.

“Are you saying I have no friends?” Barty asked.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Oh my godwitches. We’d been about to kiss. Cillian’s hand covered his mouth, and he wouldn’t look at me. I needed him to look at me, to reassure me this would all be okay.

“And how many friends do you have?” Barty asked.

“Oh, many. Too many to even count.”

Cillian shot to a stand, swaying on his feet. “Well, this was a lovely afternoon, but I think the date is over now.”

He wouldn’t meet my gaze, and my heart cracked. This was what I’d been worried about. That we would take things too far and ruin our friendship, that we’d make a mistake and regret it. That I would lose my best friend.

“But there’s still so much wine and food.” Barty’s wings flapped behind him, and not for the first time, I wondered how these huge, heavy stone gargoyles could so effortlessly float in the air.

“Such a waste.” Tal tsked.

“Tell the servants,” Cillian stammered, so unusual for the well-spoken prince. “They’re welcome to finish whatever we didn’t eat.”

The gargoyles lifted into the air, voices calling out as they yelled there was free food in the garden.

I came to a stand on shaky legs and turned toward Cillian, needing to make this better.

“I’m sorry, Cerriwen,” he said in a quiet voice. “It was the wine, and maybe . . .” He shoved a hand through his hair. “Maybe something else. I don’t know. I shouldn’t have done that. You know, I don’t think I’m feeling too great after all. I should go rest.”

“I’m sorry too,” I said, and it was my second lie of the day. I wasn’t sorry. I’d wanted to kiss him, to wrap myself around him and feel what it would be like to have his body on mine.

“Are we okay?” he asked, and for the first time since we’d entered the tent, I noticed how red his eyes were, how a sheen of sweat covered his skin despite the pleasant breeze, how ashen his normally glowing skin looked.

Siobhan’s warning came flooding back to me all at once. Maybe it was the alcohol affecting him. Or maybe it was something else. After all, I’d seen Cillian drunk before, but I’d never seen him look like this.

“Yes,” I stammered. “But Cillian, do you need⁠—”