Mortal Fantasy

✴｜chapter three

I snort a little, before the pressure of a giggle builds in my throat. It becomes a full-fledged laugh that breaks out of my mouth. So this must be hysteria.

"Who—who am I?" I say, between guffaws. "I, I'm sorry, Your Highness... I'm here because of you."

Stephen narrows his eyes at me, and I try to tamp down my laughter. A sadistic snigger curls the edge of his lip. "So you think this is a joke?"

I swallow. Quiet, Ithena. He's the prince. "I... I thought you knew. Didn't you want me...?"

"Want you?" He looks down at me, really looks at me for the first time, and an unnerving grin comes to his mouth. "Why the hell would I want you?"

The words lock in my throat, and a strange sense of shock comes over me. People have always stopped to gaze at me, praise my beauty; and while I wasn't arrogant enough to revel in it, feeling their subtle pauses has become a natural feeling, like a second nature.

And the Crown Prince, possibly the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes upon, has barely blinked an eye at me.

It's not as if I care, I think, bristling. I don't want him to see me like that. I don't want him to have anything to do with me.

"I think there's a misunderstanding," I say, finally leveling my eyes with his golden ones. The fury in them seems to dull a bit, and he stares at me as I speak. "I'm... Ithena. I was brought here to be... a concubine. Your concubine."

A heady silence fills the minimal space between us, and he finally withdraws onto his haunches, releasing my wrists. I sit up in front of him, rubbing the ache from my skin and taking in the lack of warmth now that his body is no longer on top of mine. I watch him processing my words—this time I cannot avoid looking at his chest, sculpted and shaped with countless powerful abdominal muscles, and while I am satisfied that my heart does not trip and race, a light liquid weight seems to press down into my stomach. He must have been bathing—I internally curse myself from looking too long. Don't you want nothing to do with him?

The prince rakes a hand over his face and laughs humorlessly. "Oh, gods. That shameless..."

I cannot sate my curiosity; the word flies from my mouth. "Who?"

Stephen passes me a dangerous look, but finally lifts his head and consents to tell me. "The queen. My mother." It is either my imagination, or his pronunciation of those words is bitter. "This is simply another one of her games."

"Games?" I repeat—I cannot help myself. Ripping me away from my family, my people, Meir? I stifle a wild mixed noise of anger and grief. A game?

Stephen studies me with lowered aureate eyes, and a muscle in his jaw twitches. "You don't know her." He stands, and it occurs to me how degrading it must look for me to still be sprawled on the floor, so I brush myself off and join him. "You're nothing but a way to taunt me."

Whose mother would want to mock them? "I... pardon?"

He smirks and crosses the room, picking up a dagger sheathe from a stool and flipping it in his palm. His left shoulder blade rolls gingerly beneath his smooth olive skin, waist tapering into a perfect V, and I have the urge to shut out his beauty by closing my eyes—but it would make me even more of a fool to be doing so if he were to turn around and look at me, so I force them open and try to remember that all of it is simply a glittering facade. Outward beauty, to mask the cruelty that lies within.

"I don't take concubines," he says, carefully. "I have never done so, though obviously my mother and father do, and so does the rest of the nobility." He stops flipping the sheathe and lays it down, fingers lingering around it. "Humans are just a pathetic excuse of a race to fulfill golden-blooded needs. There is no need for me to associate with your kind of my own volition."

I press back all emotion—despite the circumstance, he is still the prince. "I... didn't know." I look around at his multi-roomed chambers, feeling small, and wonder out loud, "Then will you let me go back to my home?" It is a leap in the dark, a sparking hope that I cannot help but carry. "If you have no further need for me—"

"That is where you're mistaken." Stephen turns to face me, and the set of his mouth is hard. His eyes are passive and distant, halcyon slits. "If the queen comes to know that you've left the palace, she'll do either of two things: bring you back, or kill you." Some undecipherable emotion twists in his eyes, and he walks back toward his bed and slides a dark robe from the lush sheets over his shoulders. "I don't need you, but it seems pitiful for you to die because of it." Pinning the robe together, he comes towards me, and when he lowers his face to mine and meets my gaze with furious intensity, I can't help but let out a sharp gasp.

"But make no mistake," he hisses, bringing his fingers to my chin and holding it up, "step out of line and I won't hesitate to lay my fingers on you. Understand?"

My throat bobs. I slip my face away from his grasp as cautiously as possible, but dip my head.

"Good." He strides past me, leaving a subtle wind in his wake. "Then I'll have the maids take you to a separate arrangement." I sense him pause, ever so slightly. "Good night, Ithena."

Even when he has left the room to call the maids, his presence is everywhere, watching me, stalking my every move.

I inhale a large breath through my mouth, and subconsciously touch the fabric on my thigh, beneath which my dagger is strapped, waiting.

If this is the true nature of Atellyn's Crown Prince, then killing him will be much harder than I thought.

A/N

The drama is picking up! What do you think of Stephen's character so far? (Scary? Pretty much!)

Don't forget to vote, comment and share if you enjoyed :D

Until next chapter,

Icelynn :3