𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋 | 𝟏𝟖+

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 | 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆

ততততত

𝐈 𝐌 𝐎 𝐆 𝐄 𝐍

We wait in the throne room, my mind in a thousand places, but none of them being here.

My emotions mix around until they form a heavy numbing stew. Anger, frustration are at its core due to Tobin's discovery of Ruslan's bedroom. I've been naive around him, handing him my trust as if he wouldn't mishandle it. Yet, I just didn't want to face the grim reality of knowing that his intentions were always elsewhere. I saw him as a friend. He saw me as a tool. That's what pains me more than the discovery of Ruslan.

And I let him free.

I released him back into Lagulon's countryside as if he didn't know the truth that lies within the castle. He gave me his word, but words aren't enough to seal a promise. I doubt he'll come back, and if he does, I don't know if I want him to stay.

We've developed a strange tether between us, a mutual attraction that beckons us closer. It's an almost inaudible vibration that hums through our skin with every touch, bubbling up with a tingling pleasurable heat. When I stand close, my senses heighten to his every movement and sound. He hypnotizes me in a way no man ever has.

A fraction of me believed that this attraction between Tobin and I could replace the misery of my betrothal—a dream to bask in compared to the nightmare I'm given.

My father sets his worn hand on my shoulder. "Remember, Imogen, you won't fall out of our sight."

I nod my head as I study my father. He dresses in royal navy robes. Embroidered golden waves decal the edges of his sleeves, hems, and cuffs, as well as an intricate pattern of golden-threaded ivy that weaves up the back of his coat. I dress to match him: a navy dress flaunted with golden waves and ivy branches. Long ago, an olive branch symbolized a time of peace, an attribute our kingdom is in desperate need of receiving now.

Beside my father stands Lorcan, his second-in-command, a man so loyal to the throne that it somehow puts my own father to shame. Lorcan's hazel eyes meet mine, and he gives me a sympathetic nod. His long dark hair shelters his face, hiding the pity he has for me.

A chill bellows through the room, the air shifting from an anxious warmth to a bitter winter wind.

King Leighton.

My father extends his arms. "King Leighton," his voice bellows in such artificial happiness. "It's been some time."

Leighton gives a curt nod to my father. "Not since Adirya died... My condolences on the loss."

Adirya. My mother. A saint found by my father in the darkness.

Leighton stands amongst Adoridian warriors, each one still dressed in glistening iron armour. My betrothed wears deep pine clothes, with armour so black one would think it were coated in a mixture of soot and oil. He's a tall man, yet his long peppering tendrils and icy cerulean eyes entice everyone in the room. He's a boulder—biceps aching to escape the stitching of his clothes.

This man could crush me like a dandelion.

My father's lips twitch at the mention of my mother's name. "We did what we could at the time, but no one can win against death, can they?"

Leighton scans our party, mostly just the three of us anticipating his arrival. He then proceeds to introduce more of his men.

First, he points to a man with a deadly scar running down his cheek. His amber hair is shaven on the sides, yet long in a glorious mohawk down the middle. He's shorter next to Leighton, but carries a long rusty spear in his hand.