The girl in her coffin is already changing things between us, and I fucking hate it. I want to hate her for it, which is hardly fair. She isn’t even conscious. None of this is her doing. She simply exists.
At the foot of the glass-topped casket is a plaque. I sweep away the dust to read the inscription.
Here lies the cursed Isanthian Princess, Briar Rose, who shall rest in dreamless sleep until true love awakens her. May she rest forevermore.
Hm. Not sure what to make of that last line. Was Alistair’s ancestor so obsessed that he’d rather she never awakens to live a life without him? Or was it fear of what will happen if she does wake up? Both, most likely.
Latches click.
Guess we’re about to find out.
“She’s even more gorgeous than the legends said.” Alistair’s wondering admiration comes out in an exhalation. I’ve never heard him sound so…awed.
Now I really want to know what she looks like.
The light’s reflection on the case obscures the woman inside and bathes Alistair’s face in unholy blue. He lifts the heavy lid on silent hinges. It tilts outward at a precarious angle and holds.
I edge closer.
I swear I’m indifferent to beautiful women—I’ve had plenty of them, and they’re no better or worse than the plain ones—but my first sight of Briar lands like a fist to my heart. It falters atthe sight of her perfect face and the golden hair shining against a satin pillow. Her body is clothed in a simple blue dress that does nothing to conceal her shape.
Her hands are crossed over her tits as if she’s about to squeeze them in an offering, or like a maiden trying to maintain her modesty. My cock thickens at the thought of how they would feel in my palms.
Alistair scoops one arm beneath her neck. The girl’s head lolls.
“A hundred years you have slept, Rose,” he whispers. “Now, awaken with the kiss of true love.”
He bends to press a chaste kiss to her lips. Remarkably restrained, for him.
Nothing happens.
A bolt of smug satisfaction strikes me dead center.
Watching him taste her perfection roils me. I turn away. I can’t witness him defile the woman I suddenly, unexpectedly, desire.
Witch.
They should have burned her instead of locking her away like a precious treasure. No woman can be trusted to command that kind of power over men. We are weak creatures. Beautiful women make us stupid and covetous, and gods above, she is cursed with enough beauty for ten princesses.
Alistair drops her back into the satin-lined coffin, frowning. He takes her shoulders and gives her a shake.
“Wake up, Rose.”
No response.
“Her name is Briar,” I point out. “Rose is her middle name.”
“It doesn’t suit her. She’s soft like a petal.” He strokes the curve of her cheek. “So that’s what I’ll call her. Rose.”
I’m not surprised, exactly, that he’s chosen a name for her before she’s awake to have a say in the matter. Inexplicablyirritated, but not surprised. “When did you turn into a damned poet?”
“I am simply voicing an accurate observation, Kill, while trying to solve the puzzle of why she didn’t wake up.” He frowns.
Maybe it’s because you’ve never loved anyone but yourself.
And who needs it, really? Nobody, that’s who. My own mother didn’t love me, and I get by just fine without it.
But if true love is the key to waking up the princess, we need to accept defeat and get out of here, for neither of us are capable of it. If such a thing even exists, which I strongly doubt.
