Page 69 of Of Rime and Ruin
Or not.
“I read other things, too. Lately I’ve been into grimoires.” She catches up to me, and in my periphery, I spot her smirk.
She searches my face for something, then frowns. Disappointed in me? Get used to it, Princess.
“Sounds better than romance,” I say.
“How so?”
“Magic, unlike romance, is predictable. You guide your intent, and the spell happens as you imagine it. Romance…” Why am I telling her this?
At the end of the hallway, I spot our destination. Relief washes through me. Just a few more moments with her, and my duty is done.
I glance at my hands. No sign of the scales, yet. Despite the princess’s insistence on annoying me with her questions. I can do this. I can keep it under control.
“Romance is what?” she presses.
“It’s misleading. Guppy’s play. And it never goes as planned.” I stop abruptly, turning to face the door to the suite, and she walks into me.
Her starfish-clad breasts press into my arm, bundled in soft fur, and I hiss through my teeth. She’s too close. My cock flexes, aroused by the touch, by the thought of taking those breasts, soft and supple in my hands.
“Your room.” I sidestep to break the contact, like a fucking gentleman.
It’s the only room I’ve kept clean the past ten years besides my own. No guests mean no reasons to keep spare beds, which is a blessing for my staff, but has put me in a bit of a crunch tonight.
I have no other choice.
With a deep breath, I open the door and let it swing wide. She tiptoes inside, peering into the dark room. I know the layout by heart. There’s a large bed in the center, a writing desk to the left. Two plush chairs frame the fireplace on the right, next to a handsome bookshelf. The whole room is painted in a deep muted blue, too dark to see clearly now. In the morning, lightwill stream through the single window, chasing away the horrors of the night.
This is my mother’s room. When we moved ashore, I had it made up for her, on the off chance I’ve been wrong, that she’ll come back from the dead, walk through my front door, and demand a place to rest her weary feet.
Every week, I make sure the sheets are fresh. Just in case.
Inviting the princess here feels strangely like bringing a female home to meet my parents.
My fingers find the top desk drawer. I rummage for a match to light a few squat candles on the desk. The strike breaks the silence, and flame flares with a hiss of smoke.
“Oh,” she gasps. “It’s beautiful.”
It’s dusty. The air is cold, the fireplace empty. A few stacks of dry wood rest on the hearth, collecting silkmite webs. I cross the room, then squat to arrange the wood. My fingers are numb, beginning to stain blue, and my heart races.
Heat to quench the anger, bran to stave the hunger, darkness to calm the fight.
I need heat. Now. Before I lose control. Maybe I can stave it off. I’ve already transformed once tonight. What’s the likelihood of it happening twice?
With another match, I light the kindling. The sticks crackle and pop as the fire grows. I hover my hands over the logs, much too close to the flame.
“Did you decorate this?” she asks, and I turn to see.
Her curls catch the candlelight, glinting bronze, and she looks almost regal. She walks with a certain sureness, a spunky twitch in the swing of her hips. She peers around, running her hands over the frame of the bed, the blue velvet curtains.
“No. It’s all Deirdre.”
My chest burns, watching her. Is she impressed? I let my imagination wander, just this once. Her, living here long term.Her, curled in a reading chair. A romance novel on her lap. Deirdre tottering through the doorway with endless cups of tea.
No guard at her door, because this is where shewantsto be. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it?
Would she learn to like me? Could we be friends?
