Chapter 51: Fifty One
Valka
"Oh, you know, that uncomfortable burn you feel in your chest when--"
"I know what it means," he snaps. "But do not liken me to your pathetic little lovers who feel. Everything I want, I take. Everything I desire, I own. There is nothing I cannot acquire. Why waste my time with jealousy? You already belong to me. You stand before me because I allow it. The very air you breathe is mine. That smart mouth of yours, mine. That witty, twisted mind of yours, still mine. Your body," his eyes run down my figure, flashing at the sight of my legs, and his fangs glint as he snarls vehemently. "Mine."
He takes one step, sucking all the light in the world and replacing it with the sun in his eyes. "If I chose to chain you to my bed, whip you, lease you to whoever the fuck I want to, it wouldn’t make you any less mine. You’ll never be more than what I decide for you, Valka. My tool. My weapon." His eyes flick behind me. "My plaything." His eyes are hard when they meet mine again. "Remember your place."
His words feel like a douse of icy water over my head. I stare at Lucien, at the certainty in his eyes. At the surety with which he speaks, like I am something to be owned and used. And I realize how truly naive I am to have begun to think we were reaching a sense of... camaraderie. That choosing to help him would make him see me any different. I didn’t even realize I wanted him to see me differently until a second ago.
My fists clench around the fabric of my dress and I lower my gaze from his violet ones. "I understand."
I turn around and start walking. Back to Cyrus.
"Valka," he calls, voice strained with something dangerously close to remorse. But I hardly care for it. "Valka, wait."
I don’t. If I am nothing but his puppet, then I’ll play the role perfectly. But not for him. For me. If only to prove that one mark does not make me his slave, I will carve out my own space, even if I have to burn for it.
I feel Lucien’s gaze on my back, a tangible ancient thing that feels like shards of ice cutting deeply into my spine. And I knew he wouldn’t stop me. His pride wouldn’t let me. Because stopping me would in fact, mean he was jealous of some human male whose grand parents hadn’t even been born when he’d began running the affairs of a kingdom.
Prince Cyrus hears the click of my heels before I ever reach him. Turning around, the moon catches in his glossy black hair. "That was shorter than expected."
I don’t bother with courtesies. I don’t bother with words.
I seize his collar in both hands and kiss him.
It isn’t gentle. It isn’t coy. It’s fire and fury, the taste of defiance and hate pressed against his lips, until all I can hear is the sound of my blood roaring in my ears. Cyrus stills against me, but not for long. This might not be my area id expertise, but my mind drifts back to that day in my bedroom. How Lucien had kissed me. How I’d been thrashing against Ilya to get out of the cage where she’d placed me. And I’d still felt the lust. Because gods, did the man know how to spell his name on my tongue.
I mimic the movements. It is sick. Twisted, but I savour in the smell of the danger wafting off of Lucien. His anger emboldens me. And I let Cyrus grip my waist and crush me against his chest and delve his fingers into my hair.
When Lucien leaves, the heaviness in the air vanishes. It is all the indication I need before I pull away from Cyrus. His blue eyes are wide, stunned, his lips reddened with my lipstick.
I move to wipe it off, but instead I let my hand fall, knowing he’ll surely run into Lucien again. I wanted him to see what I’d done. I wanted him to understand the clear message behind it.
I lower my head in an apologetic bow. "I must retire for the night. It’s been a long day." I don’t wait for Cyrus’s response, frightened that what I’d just done would soon register and I’d want to crawl in a hole and die.
But Cyrus catches my wrist. I stare at where he holds me gently, before finally lifting my gaze to his. He seems stripped of words, stripped of his usual charm. His eyes are raw and earnest. "When can I see you again, my Lady?"
My Lady. My lips twitch with a small smile and though I know not to trust him, I say, "The King’s training yard. Tomorrow." A pause. "And you may call me by my given name."
****
Lucien
Valka’s laughter carries across the yard like a curse.
Of all the godsdamned places in this castle, she had to choose my private yard to parade around with her new little lover. Giggling like some highborn maiden when we both know she’s nothing of the sort.
The princeling says something while they circle each other, blades gleaming, and she laughs again. He’s not even that funny.
"Someone piss in your wine this morning?" Evadne pants, barely ducking my sword as it whistles past her ear. She flicks damp hair from her face. "Or someone didn’t?"
Another helpless giggle. My jaw tightens, that familiar bitter taste flooding my mouth. Valka knocks Cyrus flat, straddles him, steel kissing his throat close enough to draw blood.
"Yield!" she crows, breathless with mirth.
And the foolish boy looks at her like he’s seeing a woman for the very first time. "Just when I think you can’t get more stunning, you knock me off my feet. Literally."
I may actually require a bucket. To vomit into.
"You said you didn’t like her," Evadne prods, launching into a set of swift strikes. I deflect them lazily, more interested in watching Valka move. I hadn’t lied when I said she had one of the most beautiful fighting forms I’d ever seen. She moves swiftly, like a dancer, and it is a thrill to watch her come alive with a blade in her hand, though, I could do well without her batting pretty lashes at... well, never mind.
"I don’t," I bite out.
"You said she was just a means to an end."
"I did."
"You said you wouldn’t care if she died."
My sword arm snaps up, knocking her aside. "Is there a reason you feel the need to recite me to myself?"
Evadne blinks, all wide-eyed innocence. "Just smells a little too much like hypocrisy in here."
My teeth grind. "Get to the point. I’m not in the mood."
Eva rolls her eyes and tosses her practice blade at the rack, snatching up a spear instead. She’s been at it since the Selection, despising the thought of needing to be saved and nearly costing Valka her life because she had miscalculated. She’s been stuck in this hall, driving herself until her body breaks, convinced it’s the only way to silence her guilt. I don’t call her on it. I’ve known her long enough to understand why.
She had done worse after Ilya’s death. Faulting herself for surviving, in spite of everything that happened in that manor. In spite of everything that happened to her. It’s a subject neither of us talks about. Too many layers to unpack. Too much pain to last generations.
She raises her hand. "So what if she likes him--"
"She doesn’t," I say with a scoff. "It is all a front to get under my skin."
Eva’s brow arches. "Still living under the impression the world revolves around you?"
I pause, considering. Then nod solemnly. "The world does revolve around me. Tragic, I know, bearing the weight of being this godsdamned extraordinary." I flick my chin toward the duo as Valka parries the pretty princeling’s strike. "And then, she goes and kisses a man who looks like a meat loaf."
Eva doubles over laughing. "He does not look like a meat loaf. You’re just pissed she doesn’t want you. You don’t even like her, but it’s driving you mad that, for once, someone isn’t bowing to the role you scripted for them on your little chessboard."
I pause for a second, cataloguing her words into a different box in my mind for later. "You’re talking nonsense. You’re always talking nonsense."
Eva spins her spear, smirking. "Admit it, Lucy. This is a safe space. You’re so damned jealous of that little boy, you’re thinking of splattering his brains against the wall, aren’t you?"
"I have no idea what you mean," I say. Truth be told, I’ve been thinking the white walls may need a little more colour. Red, maybe.
My attention snags across the yard at the spark of *something* I feel thrumming in Valka. Her hands are braced on the second rack and Cyrus leans in. Far too close for my liking. His hand lifts, thumb brushing the curve of Valka’s neck to wipe away a bead of sweat.
My Lycan feels the jolt as that hand brushes against my mark on her.
And he detonates.
It isn’t me. This isn’t me, I think, as I close a hand over the princeling’s collar and hurl him across the hall with a snarl. He crashes into the wall, still as death.
I hadn’t even known when I moved.
Valka cries his name, dropping her sword and sprints towards him. She falls to her knees, pressing her ear to his nose for a heartbeat.
"He’s fine. He’ll wake with a headache, at best," I say with a dispassion that doesn’t at all mirror what I truly feel inside.
Her jaw grinds and she’s on her feet in a second, small hand slapping into my chest. "Are you insane? He’s human! He could’ve broken his neck. And died!"
I run my tongue along my teeth. "That can still be fixed."
Her eyes burn into mine with fury. "What the hell is your problem? Are you so blinded by your misplaced sense of entitlement that you would kill the Prince of Voss for it? And what the fuck do you think would happen next? War. One that you cannot afford right now, you bloody idiot."
She is yelling at me in front of my guards. Insulting me. An offense punishable by death. And for some reason, I don’t mind it at all. I might even like it.
"Keep provoking me, Val, and the blood of a dead prince on your hands will be the very least of your problems." I lean in. "Just keep trying me."
Her lips curl into a sneer. "Fuck. You." And then, she storms away.
Evadne whistles low from behind me. Damn."