Bring Me Their Hearts(81)

“I will never consider meeting you a mistake,” Lucien says, his midnight eyes flashing.

My heart locket seizes—he heard that? The pain in my locket is a burning inferno—no. I can’t let him distract me. Not now, not ever. I lunge in once more. He meets me with a slick parry with his blade behind his back. My stomach dances, and even though his sword point is inches from my face, molten euphoria seeps through my veins. It’s the same feeling I got when I chased him through the streets, when we danced together in the parade. There is no future right now, no taking his heart, no nobles and what they think of me, no Y’shennria or Fione or Crav or Peligli depending on me, no hole in my chest, no Cavanos gone to war—there is only him, and me.

This moment is what it feels like to be human. This is…happiness.

I’m so enamored by the moment I feel the sword edge digging into me too late—warm blood seeps down my slit forearm. Lucien’s eyes widen, and his pressure against me goes slack. Panic lodges in my throat, bracing me for the instant agony. We separate.

“Lady Zera wins by bloodrule!” the girl announces. The nobles go wild, cheering and throwing handkerchiefs into the arena. Even Gavik begrudgingly applauds. Lucien is much less joyful.

“You’re injured,” he starts. I grit my teeth against the white-hot mercury burning in my body. I have to get away as soon as possible and heal where no one can see me.

“I hate to break it to you, Your Highness, but these things occasionally happen in a fight.”

“Your arm—” Lucien cuts off my thought and slides gentle fingers beneath my forearm, lifting it to show the angry red wound there. “This is my fault.”

I remain silent, watching his long, graceful fingers on my skin. It feels good to have someone touch me like this—gently. But it can’t last. I pull my arm from his.

“You choose now to be nice to me? I see how it is—bleed a little and suddenly you’re all kindness.”

His midnight eyes don’t once waver from mine, and something deep inside me begins to crumble—a feeling I detest and relish all at once.

“Well, Lucien?” Malachite’s voice resounds as he walks up to us. “Are we going to treat her wound or not?”

Lucien tears his gaze from mine. “Yes. Of course.”

“That really isn’t necessary,” I say. “I can do it myself—”

“It could get infected,” he interrupts me. “Come. I have a wound kit.”

He reaches out for my uninjured hand, his fingers rough yet warm. The nobles whisper and watch with intent, Gavik’s gaze narrowed. I can hear the rumors already. I need his heart, not his genuine affection. I pull my hand away.

“Your Highness, doing this yourself might give the wrong impression—”

“Impressions be damned,” Lucien snarls. “We must treat your wound.”

Malachite pushes the small of my back toward the palace. “Don’t make me pick you up and bring you there.”

“I’d like to see you try,” I tease, desperate to get out of this situation. “Even a Beneather would be hard-pressed to lift my weight—”

“Enough!” Lucien demands, brows furrowing sharply. “Come with me, now. This is an order from your prince.”

The tittering of the nobles stops at his tone. I can’t disobey an order, not from the Crown Prince, and not in front of so many people. Indignation eats at me—how dare he use his position to force me to come with him? Does he think he can just get away with that? Of course he does—no one dares disobey him. I swallow, standing my ground, making my gaze sing iron refusals. I won’t let him have his way. Not like everyone else. Not like the others. I never want to be “like the others” in his eyes. But why? I don’t know, there’s just selfishness where reasons should be, and Lucien opens his mouth to say something, and suddenly the world spins, the prince becoming a blur in front of me. I faintly hear Malachite’s voice, and then my eyes are plunged into darkness.





12


The Apple

and the Tree



I wake to white walls, white curtains wafting in the gentle breeze from an open window. A soft bed beneath my body, soft blankets on top—a bedroom. But the ceiling is so high—so high that even in my foggy state I know it must be a bedroom in the palace.

I try to sit up, but a lightning headache splits me down the middle. I double over, the pain so intense I’m convinced someone’s taken my locket, but my hand finds it on my chest, and with shaking fingers I open it. My shard of heart still beats there.

I’m safe. But for how long? What happened? Who saw me heal? The fact that I’m in a bedroom in the palace and not in a dungeon is the only thing keeping me from losing my usual flawless composure. My forearm is bandaged so perfectly, snug and clean, and Father’s sword rests against one of the bedposts. I still wear the same primrose dress I did during the duel.

How many people saw me faint? My mind flashes with the crowd, shadowy and huge. Too many—Gavik included. Why did I faint? And why do I feel like death warmed over? My whole body cries—my lungs struggling to breathe, my mouth drier than old cotton. I’ve felt this awfulness before: every time I died.

I must’ve died.

“Lady Zera, you’re awake.” Prince Lucien stands there, flanked by Malachite. Both their expressions are worried, but Lucien’s is twisted. His long braid is a little undone, wisps of dark hair hanging around his shoulders. Dark bags rim his eyes—has he not slept?