A Ruin of Roses (Deliciously Dark Fairytales 1) - Page 67
For some reason, it moved me. I wanted to roll up my sleeves and nurture it back to life. But there was something uncanny about it, beside it growing in the wood floor, so I left it alone lest I break some sort of magic remembrance spell or something.
Instead, I continued onward, absolutely delighting in the saturated tones and bold decorating choices. She even had a decorative sword and shield tacked up on the wall. A woman after my own heart.
An open doorway led to a room with a bed and another small chamber that appeared to be the bathing room. The bed stood against the far wall, a huge, canopied affair decorated in gold and ivory. The wardrobe in here had been dusted, too, everything clean and in its proper place.
Imagine living in this kind of finery, in rooms such as these. It was beyond belief for someone of my upbringing and social status, but I would definitely be dreaming my life away after seeing it. My make-believe audience was about to turn into a bunch of make-believe servants and adoring ladies-in-waiting, hanging on my every word. No more jester thoughts for this girl.
Making my way back out, I heard the metal tinkle. Like a key in the lock!
My heart sped up, and I hurried toward the glass door. Before I could get far, the door swung open. Nyfain filled the doorway, seeing me immediately. Suspicion and rage filled that golden gaze.
Everything Hadriel had said finally took root.
The funeral brought back the prince, and the demons and the king trapped him here.
She and the prince had a really tight bond.
The master blames himself…
“Oh, holy goddess, no fucking way. You’re the prince,” I said in a hasty release of breath, so many emotions warring through me that I didn’t know what to do with any of them. Excitement, sorrow, disbelief—I didn’t know where to land.
On the other side of that emotional storm sat the knowledge that this made complete sense. Of course he was the prince. The mad king had doomed us all to keep his son here. The demon king couldn’t kill him with the curse locking him in. Still. Nyfain didn’t heal the same, so it’d be easier for someone or something else to kill him. Only that hadn’t happened yet. So the demons were trying to break him.
How could I have missed this?
The prince.
The fucking prince!
Why hadn’t I known his name? But I hadn’t. And I didn’t even know the queen’s name. All of that had fallen through the cracks in my memory. It just wasn’t relevant. Still, he must’ve thought I was a simpleton. An ignorant, lowborn commoner.
I ran the back of my hand across my face.
Memories shoved into my brain. That majestic dragon cutting through the sapphire sky. The glittering gold scales catching and throwing the buttery-yellow sun.
“But your dragon is dull black, not golden—”
He rushed at me. I should’ve turned and sprinted for an exit, or maybe curled into the fetal position, or at least taken out my knife and tried to stab him, but I was too busy freezing in place. The past warred with the here and now. My memories of him in the sky warred with this scarred man in front of me. I’d daydreamed about him as a kid. Wanted to be best friends. Then I grew up, and even though we all believed he was gone, I’d fantasized about slipping into his bed. I hadn’t known what he looked like as a man, but I hadn’t cared. That roar. That dragon. That effortless glide through the sky. He’d been the pride of the kingdom. Fierce and powerful. He would take the throne and elevate us all—that was what the elders in my village had said.
“What are you doing in here?” he snarled, stopping beside the rosebush. “Getting a look at my father’s fallen kingdom?”
I frowned at the plant. “I think you’re getting a little extreme in your metaphors…”
He laughed sardonically, pinning me to my place with a hard stare. “That’s right, you are about as ignorant as they come. No idea about your animal, shifters, the dragon court…”
Pain pricked my spine. Even as a beast prowling his failing lands, he hadn’t paid attention to our village. We’d been nothing to him. I was nothing now.
But he wasn’t finished. He hovered his hand over the rosebush. “My mother’s favorite plant was the rosebush. She felt like it embodied her. When allowed to flourish in the wild, she was fierce and beautiful, sweet to smell but with a sharp bite. Then she was brought here, and the king treated her like he would a rosebush. She was pruned back. Shaped. Cultivated. Wild at heart, violent even, but unable to express it.”
He drummed his fingers against the glass. His gaze sparked violence. I took a step back, suddenly unsure.
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