Fiery anger swirled in her eyes. As she stared, her hand flattened on his chest, her fingers spread, her claws pricking his oversensitive skin.
Her hand fit neatly over a tattoo of the nine-pointed star.
He took a deep breath. Another. Shaking slightly, he covered her hand with his own. “I didn't want you to see it. It doesn't matter.”
Her brows knitted as she considered him. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”
She had always been able to see through him. Nonetheless, he gave her a casual smile. “It's nothing. Meaningless.” Carefully, insistently, he pried off her fingers and rolled to sit at the edge of the bed, facing away from her.
If he ignored it, it was nothing. He hardly walked around staring at his own chest all day. The tattoo didn't ache like some of his scars. It was nothing.
She didn't let it go so easily. “It's not nothing. She marked you like property. Like a slave. Like her fuckingprize.”
“Anais…”
“You haven't been wearing your shirts open. You always used to. I thought you had new scars.”
The tattoo was worse than a scar. He gripped the edge of the bed, chills creeping down his back. “It's fine. I like shirts that act as a second skin. It's a tactic – hiding the body in the most revealing way.”
The back of his throat felt raw with unvoiced screams. He forced himself to breathe steadily.
“It's not about the damned shirts,” she snapped. “You are not property. Do you hear me, Castien? You are not athing. You belong to no one. She will never touch you again. I will have her flayed alive. I will bleed her dry with a thousand cuts. I will burn every inch of Nadraken land, every castle and fort, every noble who bows to her, who touched you, who even looked at you.”
He turned his head to find exactly what he knew would be there: the glittering, glorious rage of his Queen, the woman he worshiped, his goddess.
Captivating his eyes, she snarled, “You. Do not. Belong. To her.”
No, he belonged to the majestic woman who looked at him with so much strength, her fire intimidating even though none of it was directed at him. Who could destroy him with a touch, but would rather destroy her own soul for him.
He blinked. Wasn't he the one who wanted honesty? A tear rolled out of the corner of his eyes.
His lips parted as he slowly admitted, “Yes, she marked me. You’re right. I hate it. The scars… I could believe the scars were a sign of strength, a reminder that I survived. This is–” His shoulders stiffened. “I want to take a knife and peel it off.”
She looked stricken.
He clutched her hand, returning it to his chest. If she wanted to touch him, he would never deny her. “I won't. I won't. It's just… one more thing I can't forget.”
He hadn't meant everything he said in the tower, but the feelings weren't false. Despair clawed at him, and he fought it back every day. Every hour.
He was weak. Fragile. He didn't want her to see it. He just needed time.
Her head sank to his shoulder. She squeezed his hand. “We will make better memories together. Promise me you will stay and let us try, Castien. Promise me you will try to trust yourself.”
He needed time. A lie slipped from his lips. “I promise.”
Chapter 43
Castien
Don’t waste your time looking for me. I’m not a prince, and I’m not worthy of the throne. A courtesan as Consort will only make your insurmountable task more difficult. I hope to see the world you will one day create.
Until then, please let me go.
***
One night of indulgence. He couldn't afford more than that.
The Queen had left for an early meeting. Madeline had helped her dress. The handmaiden was used to Castien's presence, though not his teasing. He lazed on the bed as she ignored his questions about Jerome's courtship: if the captain knew her favorite flower was a marigold, her favorite color was orange, and–
