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Poet. Was that his name? What sort of pretentious moniker was that?
In The Dark Seasons, the gift of a ribbon symbolized a person’s esteem for someone they admired. But this didn’t feel like a gift. It seemed like a tease. Or something more dangerous—like a target.
I wouldn’t know. No man has ever been rude enough to proposition me.
A pose both lazy and intentional, sinister and sinful. A devil who carried himself like a dancer.
“I don’t trust you.” “I don’t recall giving a shit,”
“You are despicable.” “Nonsense. You didn’t give me time to be despicable.”
She and Eliot must know one another well, which made him a chink in her armor.
Curse this woman. I’d promised myself I would never lay my hands on a Royal, but raging this near to one, I changed my fucking mind.
Applause. Because sometime between last night’s hall and this night’s garden, she found her nerve. And I lost mine.
In this world, women could inherit thrones without having to marry, or we could choose to bond eternally with someone. We could be knights or seamstresses. We could be warriors, mothers, or both. It was our choice, yet at the same time, it wasn’t. Class still reigned. People were expected to know their place among the ranks.
Trick me, and I shall trick you back.
I remember her whimpers against my throat. Oh, how I remember. She’d taken the pain like a warrior, laughed at my racy joke like a nymph, and then swooned like a princess.
So because we were alone, I did something phenomenal. I knelt beside the sleeping woman and stared at her. Truly stared at her. And this was how I began to feel …
“He’s my heartbeat. He’s my greatest achievement.”
His words grew fangs, the implication hard to miss. Nicu was his. Not the Crown’s.
I shall only say this. Had we been alone in the cottage, that night would have turned out differently. Had the princess given me a trace of permission, the counter would have been swiped of its dishes. Had she given the slightest indication, she would have been hauled off the ground—and that fucking water glass would have shattered to the floor.
There was Poet, utterly enamored with his son. There was me, utterly stricken by it.
My bunched fists wanted to protect them. Most of all, my clenched stomach worried about them.
“You’ve told me what you believe a fool is,” I said. “But there’s more. A fool is a man who sees his worth in a mirror, and in the faces of a crowd, but is oblivious to it elsewhere—where it counts above all, in the eyes of those who matter the most to him. Don’t insult yourself that way.”
Poet had seen me loud. And now I’d seen him quiet.
Nicu dashed outside. His father and I splintered apart, the moment shattering.
You adorable child… cockblock 😭
“Oh, fuck my permission,” Poet hissed, then rounded on me and whisked a finger against my lips. “We’re finished talking, sweeting. So very fucking finished.” Then he grabbed my face—and his mouth slammed against mine.
“What I see is a woman with bandages on her leg, not a crown on her head. She defended the jester whom she despises and befriended the child whom society expects her to shackle. She dances in front of mirrors. She cherishes a minstrel. That makes an authentic heart, and that’s what makes a leader. “She began as the jester’s target but ended up tricking him instead. That’s what makes her stunning, and that’s why I can’t stop myself from obsessing over her. Too bad for the world, she’d rather let people believe her as cold as a block of marble.”
“My excuse is three feet tall and has my eyes. What’s yours?”
BAH HAHA 😂😂😂
And in my weakness, I found a new type of power—the means to shut him up.
She knew that Jinny knew, and Jinny knew that Briar knew, and I knew that they both knew. And so fucking forth.
I wanted to take care of her.
the royal bane of my existence
Protectiveness curled my knuckles. If anyone wounded her, I’d be forced to do bodily damage to them. Inflict the slightest harm to Briar, and I would tear them to shreds.
Touch her and I’ll kill you vibes for the win!! 🥰🤌🏼
“The only person who gets to laugh at the princess—” his voice dripped with venom, “—is herself.”
The web tightened before my eyes. Eliot, in love with Poet but thinking the jester was in love with the Seven. Cadence, in love with Poet but thinking the jester was in love with Eliot. Posy and Vale, in love with each other—and with Cadence. Me, in love with nobody. And Poet, in love with himself.
I wanted to pull this female from the roots, expose her for the goddess, warrior, and ruler she truly was. When the princess didn’t restrain herself, she still moved with a clunky lack of rhythm, but her awful coordination hardly mattered. For the dancing made her happy, and that happiness made her the brightest fucking thing in this garden.
Defeated, I dropped my head into my hands—and bounded so high, the top of my skull smacked against the fucking ceiling. Her yelps dissolved into laughter. Slapping her palms over her mouth, Briar convulsed into hysterics, tears springing to her eyes at my expense. The scene became so comically atrocious that I burst into quiet chuckles with her.
“I see you. I see your resilience and strength of will. I see your determination and tenacity. I see your desire for control and your longing to dance. I see your integrity and daring, even when every other fool in a packed room fails to. I see it all, and I want it all, for you’ve bewitched me out of my wicked fucking mind.”
“You’re every bitter and euphoric feeling I have. You’re in every word I speak, every move I make. All of it is you. Whatever happens from now on, you will be my ecstasy and my downfall.
Just before we passed one another, our fingers stole out to brush. For a second, they made contact, faint and fleeting.
Sorry wasn’t the whole story. When anger came out and drew words like swords, so did the truth.
Rage festered under my skin and climbed up my wrists. In a spasm of action, I whipped around, strode over to the female, and smacked her clear across the face.
If you cannot say anything without due respect, then do your work, act like the lady you’re supposed to be, and keep your bitchy mouth shut!”
“You’re all the color in this world, not me. You’re Spring and Summer and Autumn and Winter. Your eyes are good luck clovers.”
He wasn’t her. No one else would ever be her.
Alas. Broken hearts made faults and fools of us all.
Crimson would pool across the floor. Hearts would be ripped from chests. My daggers would maim and nail bodies to the wall for target practice. That was assuming I showed mercy. No one would be safe from me if they touched her.
The princess leveled me with an I-told-you-so look. Shit. Well, I couldn’t be right every time.
It’s been a long night, and my tolerance threshold is at an all-time low. Not that it’s ever been high concerning you and my offspring.”
“The greatest courage a person can have is to love another, for there are only two outcomes. Either the love lasts, and our lives are compromised, or it doesn’t, and our lives are emptied. Either way, we suffer more than we celebrate. I’ve enjoyed suffering with you. We are a tale for campfires.”
“Should she wish it, I shall do this to her forever, even as the walls crumble around us and the land burns to ash. I will stay with this woman, follow this princess into hell, and keep touching this future queen the whole time. I will keep wanting her, keep sparring with her, and keep coming back to her.” Poet whispers, “Right now, I’m loving her … because I do, and have, and will.” My hands shook as they clasped his face. “Poet.” “I love her,” he hissed, capturing my mouth.
I loved him. Seasons save me, I did. I loved this devilish man so much it hurt. He was everything that enflamed and emboldened me. He was my craving and my comfort, my abandon and my bedrock, utterly out of control yet safely rooted to the ground.
His deadly glower said one other thing. Touch the princess, and I shall impale you. My own deliberate scowl said something rather similar. Touch the jester, and I will shatter you.
Together, we smashed the rules to a fucking pulp.
