Page 51 of A Crown So Cursed
“Fools!” she shrieked. “Fools! Bloody fools! Can’t you see it’s a trick? She’s not Fae! She’s not Niamh!” She struggled desperately, her refined façade crumbling into a spectacle of misery as they dragged her away.
The hall, once divided by intrigue, now united in a murmur of approval as her father staggered backward, his obsidian eyes wide and flat with shock.
“Arrest Lord Elric as well,” demanded Maelon, and several of the king’s guards moved to obey, flanking the Shadow Court’s guards as they dragged both the High Lord Minister and his daughter from the dais.
Lirael was still screaming when they reached the lower steps, her voice gone raw, but in the hush that followed her departure, the mood of the hall lifted.
Málik gave Gwendolyn a nod, gesturing for her to speak, and Gwendolyn turned to face the assembly, her presence now as majestic as it was serene, the cloak’s magic still shimmering around her. But rather than cling to the cloak, she dared to shed Arachne’s gift.
Nothing changed. She was no longer Gwendolyn, but still Gwendolyn.
“We are not the past,” she declared. “We are what follows. I will stand for you, if you stand for me?” A ripple of silence traveled down the gallery, as though the assembled courtiers needed the space of three shared breaths to comprehend what had just occurred. And then, the old lords and ladies all clapped, and Málik took her by the hand.
With blood still dripping from her palm, Esme offered a cheeky salute. “Vivat Regina,” she proclaimed in the language of the Gods.
In perfect echo, a thousand voices replied: “Vivat Regina!”
Their voices rebounded off the halls, until the bones of the palace itself seemed to shiver, and for a moment, even Gwendolyn was swept away by the lauds. Not since she’d won the battle against Locrinus AP Brwt had she received such a thunderous praise.
“You see?” Esme purred, sidling up beside Gwendolyn. “They are only harmless sheep, only ever needing a dragon to lead them.”
She clutched her wounded hand to her breast, where it freely bled, and Gwendolyn leaned close to whisper. “I think the saying goes, ‘they need a wolf.’”
Esme grinned, all fang, lunacy and pride. “Wolf, dragon, sheep—it matters not. Today, sister, you are all three.” She added in a whisper only Gwendolyn could hear, “Maybe now you may return to the business I interrupted. I promise not to intrude again.”
Laughter—actual laughter, bright and buoyant—bubbled up from Gwendolyn’s belly before she could suppress it, and Málik’s answering smile was full of mischief.
“I will second that,” he said, and with that, he caught Gwendolyn by the waist—and with a flagrant lack of royal dignity, spun her around, sweeping her off her feet as though she weighed but a feather. And in the heart of the King’s Hall, with all the court as witnesses, he then pressed a victorious kiss to her mouth, after which, with the queen in his arms, he departed.
ChapterSeventeen
Before returning to our bower, I take Gwendolyn to what has become my favorite haunt—the bathhouse, modeled after the one in Trevena.
“So it seems…you spoke true,” she says, her smile sly, her memory keen. She is thinking, I know, of the night we reclaimed Trevena from Locrinus and his brothers, and of the boast I made in the water screw.
I say nothing, only grin.
The water here, warm, infused with lavender and cedar, courses through a series of pools at different levels, each spilling into the next, the sound a soothing river song that fills the air with peace. Steam coils up, clinging to the stone walls, beading on our skin, turning the world soft and dreamlike.
Like our bower, this chamber is not a fantastical creation of Arachne’s, but a sacred place, a temple to love and beauty, crafted with such precision and artistry that it felt like a living, breathing entity. The rippling pools, illuminated by soft torchlight, cast shadows against the walls and creating a mesmerizing display.
As is proper, I undress, then bathe her, restraining my ardor with a king’s discipline, serving my queen with the reverence she deserves—even as the urge to seize her, and press her body to mine, pulls at my cock. The ache builds, exquisite and maddening, but I savor it, relishing the feel of her skin beneath my hands as I trace the elegant lines of her shoulders and back with the soapy cloth.
We have waited twenty-two years.
What is a handful of moments more?
The thought of taking her is a devil at my ear, whispering, tempting, but I hold fast. The gravity of this reunion demands more than haste—it demands ceremony, and the honoring of a bond once sundered by fate and time. The water enfolds us; the lavender sinking deep, unwinding the knots of our separation layer by layer. Her skin, nearly pearlescent in the mist, gleams beneath the gentle light, and I make a ritual of bathing her, a rite of renewal, as though by cleansing her flesh I may also wash away the years lost. This act, despite its intimacy, is far less about carnal desire and more a ritual of renewal, symbolizing her rebirth into our world.
Her sighs blend with the burble of the watercourse, and when she leans back against me, head pillowed on my shoulder, eyes closed, I feel the world narrow to the heat and scent and sound of her, my heart thumping wildly.
The steam dances around us, cloaking us in a private world that hums with the promise of all the moments we’ve yet to share
“I’ve dreamt of this so long,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible above the lapping water.
“As have I,” I answer, my words nearly lost in the hush.
Every sweep of the cloth is an attempt to erase the scars of our past, to offer her back to herself, whole and restored.
