“There were none!” he said bluntly, perhaps a bit too loudly. He lowered his tone. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Lunelle. We both agreed this was a political move, not one of passion.”
“It does not matter,” Lunelle said. “Your status does not change with your feelings, Mirquios. You are still engaged to her, and she is still counting on a union with you. I will not be the reason her plans fall apart, I cannot?—”
“Understood,” he said, waving a hand between them as her voice reached a pitch on the brink of tears. “I have no aims at coming between sisters.”
“That aside, I’m practically engaged to Arcas?—”
“No,” Mirquios muttered. “Not yet, you are not.”
Her lips twisted into a delicate pout, the words coming out in a tight whisper.
“But I will be.”
Mirquios pushed against his chest. Her sternum ached around her heart as it strained to contain the impulse to reach across the table and haul him to her.
“Surely it will not feel like this forever,” Lunelle offered. “So arduous. If you’re to marry Astra, you’ll forever be in my life in some way. We will be friends, as we are now.”
Mirquios leaned away from her, the Tether pulling tight between them.
“Of course,” he said.
“It will be enough,” she assured him. “Ithasto be enough, Mirquios.”
The king did not have a response.
ChapterEighteen
The pull of the Tether did not get any less distracting.
If anything, it got worse as the day wore on.
It wasn’t just the physical tug she felt toward him, but the emotional complexity that drowned her. It was like she could hear his thoughts from another room over—muted and muffled, but the sentiment relayed all the same. He was feeling just as conflicted as she was.
She’d escaped the torture after dinner, opting to hide in the pomegranate orchards instead of suffering through more drinks and dancing, likely in arms she could no longer think about without feeling the need to vomit.
It was all supremely cruel.
She wandered through the orchard, enjoying the familiarity of the night wrapped around her shoulders until she came to the ancient tree she’d stood before just a few weeks prior. The roots dove underground in thick, wise twists, speckled with fallen fruit.
“Perhaps you were right,” Lunelle whispered to Proserpina, wherever she was. “Perhaps neither Mercury nor Pluto was at fault, but only yourself.”
She sighed, folding herself between roots at the base of the tree, tossing her skirts over her feet as she leaned against the withering bark.
“Or perhaps you were the eldest daughter,” Lunelle mumbled. “Trapped by the expectations, theirs and yours.”
She pushed at the muscles in her chest, their constant engagement starting to wear on her.
“You could have at least warned me,” Lunelle said, closing her eyes.
“Warned you about what?”
She snapped her head forward as the prince approached. His evening attire was lined in glimmering silver threads reflecting the moonlight above.
“Arcas,” she said, moving to stand, but he waved her off.
“May I join you?”
She nodded as he sat beside her, his tall, slender frame weaving between roots and overgrown grass. His eyes fell to her chest, and for one moment, she worried he could see what she felt, but she realized she was still massaging the sore muscles.
