Page 83 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
Until Everinne.
Fucking Everinne, with her perfect mouth, perfect hips, perfect breasts, perfect everything.
Atlas glared at himself in the mirror.
She saw the same thing as everyone else when she looked at him.
A prince unworthy of the crown on his head, who was barred from court politics by his own father, whose entire life had been relegated to drinking and fucking.
Atlas cocked his arm back and punched the mirror.
It shattered, sending hundreds of pieces scattering like broken diamonds. Blood poured between his busted knuckles, sliding down the back of his hand to his wrist. He was pretty sure a couple chunks of glass were embedded in his skin, but he didn’t care.
He staggered backward, kicking aside bits of debris, and ripped off part of his shirt. He tore the hem of the fine fabric, the loud shred of it echoing in his ears, then clumsily bandaged his hand. Crimson seeped through the silk as he tied it off in a makeshift knot. Perhaps a shower would help him feel better. The new wound on his hand would heal eventually, but as he turned to head toward the granite shower stall, he lost his balance.
The back of his heel caught the clawfoot tub and he toppled backward, throwing his arms out to catch himself.
Were he sober, he might have been able to recover.
But the honeyfire inhibited his reactions, the bathing suite tilted on its axis, and Atlas landed in the tub.
His head smacked the porcelain ledge, sending ricochets of pain down his neck and spine. Black and violet stars danced before his eyes, and he winced as the throbbing ache pierced his temples. With one leg dangling over the curving ledge, he gritted his teeth and grappled with the side of the tub to try to find purchase, but his elbow knocked over a bottle of bath soap, spilling the fragrant contents all over his lap.
“Fucking skies,” he mumbled, his bleary gaze struggling to focus on the mess he made while his head continued to pulse and spin.
Heaving out a breath, Atlas tilted his head back and gave up.
“Fuck it.” He closed his eyes, ready for the swift blackout that would soon follow. “I’ll just sleep here.”
Atlas was on a boat drifting out to sea.
The waters were turbulent, rocking him back and forth, even though the skies were clear. His gut clenched and seized, the honeyfire sloshing around in his stomach like an acidic wave of bad choices. The vessel continued to sway, tossing him from side to side so bile burned in the back of his throat while his head felt as though someone had bashed it in with the hilt of a sword.
He clenched his jaw and inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of the sea and something else, something vaguely familiar. Voices sounded from behind him. Perhaps they were going to push him overboard and let him drown. He deserved no less than to sink to the bottom of the ocean and spend an eternity in a watery grave.
Again the waves surged and he swayed on his feet, gripping the rail.
Admittedly, he wasn’t ready to die just yet.
Why the fuck was he on a boat, anyway?
And who was steering the damn thing?
A swell of ice-cold water fell from the skies and Atlas lurched forward. He coughed, choked, and hacked his way into a state of consciousness. His stomach roiled and his head swam with dizziness as he slowly blinked open his eyes. He was soaked to the bone with soapy bubbles frothing on his pants and one leg flung out over the edge of a tub.
Ah, so not a boat then.
Atlas groaned, sinking down further into the tub. Hazy light spilled into the bathing suite from the framed window, making itnearly impossible to discern the time of day. There was a painful twinge in his neck, his head still ached like he’d been smashed with a brick, and his mouth tasted like old parchment soaked in alcohol.
“Rise and shine, Your Highness.” Caedian’s gruff voice sounded overhead as he hoisted Atlas out of the tub and hauled him to his feet. Atlas stumbled once, then squeezed one eye shut, trying to focus on his captain’s face. Caedian’s smooth brow narrowed and his mouth pulled to the side. “Care to explain what happened in here?”
“Fuck off,” Atlas grumbled as he ambled toward the sink, pieces of glass crunching beneath his boots. Bubbles slid down his pants and he very much looked like he’d pissed himself. “What did you do? Dump a bucket of water on my head?”
Caedian scoffed. “Thought I might need more than one.”
“Might have had better luck if you simply tossed me into the Ladova Bay,” Atlas countered, scowling.
“And leave you to drown because of your own foolish indulgences?” His captain barked out a laugh. “Unlikely.”
