Page 82 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
Bullshit.
Her words replayed in his mind, her voice cutting through him like a blade of steel fresh from the forge. Hot. Searing. Rendering him utterly useless.
He stalked toward his wardrobe and yanked the door open, ripping it clean off its hinges. The carved wood splintered and cracked, and he tossed it to the side, discarding the slabs of oak without care. Grabbing a half-full bottle of honeyfire from the shelf, he tugged the cork out with his teeth and spat it onto the floor.
Atlas swallowed two hasty gulps of the alcohol, enjoying the way the smoky sweet flavor burned the back of his throat.
The audacity of her—telling him to fuck someone else while she wore his mother’s ring, when she would soon be wearing his crown, bearing his last name. As if he would. So, she believed him to be no more worthy of his station than most of Prava, thought he had every intention of upholding his damning reputation once they married.
Fucking skies.
He gritted his teeth, dragging the bottle of liquor to his lips once again to pull another healthy swig.
Everinne had to be hiding something. A secret.
He wasn’t stupid. He’d read her thoughts like a book when they were on thevoltand she’d had his cock in her mouth. She wanted him then, was practically begging for him without having to say a word. Not only that, but he’d seen the way her turquoise eyes softened, then glowed when he professed to wanting to touch her. Foryears.Even tonight, when she ran away from him and fell into his pool, her thoughts had betrayed her. Not only was she lying to him, she was lying to herself. But she’d thrown a barrier around her mind, concealing her emotions and feelings, everything, from him.
It was infuriating.
Maddening.
Atlas raked a hand through his damp hair, shoving the loose blond curls back from his face. He knew he shouldn’t do it, knew it would probably only make things worse between them, but he didn’t care. He wanted her to fight with him. Wanted her to argue and seethe until the only thing left to do was kiss her just to shut her up. And Everinne would let him. Because he was her fucking mate.
He scoured the bond, blazing through it until he thought the thread binding them would fray and snap completely, severing them from one another.
But what he found gutted him. Left him empty with regret and despair.
The slow, steady beating of Everinne’s heart answered his call. But her mind was quiet as broken breaths shuddered through her.
She was crying in her sleep.
He’d done that, he was the reason her tears fell in silence and there was no one there to wipe them away.
Cautiously, Atlas withdrew.
He swirled the decanter of honeyfire once, watching the golden liquid churn. He finished it off, draining the bottle until it was empty, drowning his frustrations and fury in a sea of smoky sweet alcohol. The warmth heated him and blurred his senses, but the flavor died on his tongue, tasting only of regret and poor choices.
Pulling his arm back, he launched the empty bottle, watching as it smashed against the opposite wall. Glass shattered, covering the floor of his bedroom like sharpened crystals.
Atlas swayed once, gripping his bedpost with one hand to keep himself steady. His gaze fixated on his bed where hazy images of a naked Everinne, wet with need and swollen from his kisses, infiltrated his drunken mind. He could imagine her tangled in his sheets, writhing beneath him, bouncing on top of him as he filled her. While his magic heightened every sensation, leaving her trembling with pleasure, and her eyes glazed with lust.
He blinked, and the fantasy evaporated.
His erection, however, did not.
He glanced up at the painting above his bed, the one of the lone wolf running through a dark forest, and he could’ve sworn the beast snarled.
“Don’t judge me,” Atlas muttered, stalking into his bathing suite.
Bending over the ivory sink, he turned on the gilded faucet and washed away the blood from his knuckles. He hissed out a breath as the cold water ran over the gashes. Despite the fact that the wounds were already closing, the sting was still fresh. He splashed some water on his face, raking it through his drying hair, then dared to look in the mirror.
His mother’s eyes stared back at him, green and gold but lacking her warmth.
Her kindness.
He wasn’t sure what he expected to see or hoped to find, but the only thing there was the reflection of an image he’d created on his own. A prince of pleasure. A male who abandoned beds before daybreak because he couldn’t remember the name of the female sleeping next to him. Who left a trail of broken hearts and vicious rumors in his wake. Whose magic drew out the best—and worst—in every female who spread their legs for him. Sometimes his power was too much. Too potent. He’d lost track of the number of times he’d been bitten, clawed, scratched, and hit right before bringing one of them to climax. All of that, and he hadn’t even lifted a finger. Had barely touched them. It drove them mad with lust, so they were crazed and consumed by it. One female, a witch if he remembered correctly, had grabbed his dick with her pointy nails and tried to force him inside of her. When Atlas pulled back and refused, she’d punched him square in the jaw.
He hadn’t used his magic on anyone since then.
