A King's Weakness (Book 1)

Chapter 30

I'M FALLING INTO AN ABYSS, suffocating in the warm darkness. It's funny, the sensation of plummeting, the way your stomach thinks it can somehow save itself by rebelling against your chest cavity. The absolute, voracious blackness eats everything in its reach—including me. I've been falling for what feels like centuries, but I never scream. I fall even when I'm awake—plunging into the day to day cage that is court life.

I have been held here against my will for nearly four weeks.

I am a taught wire, dancing on a razor's edge. The smallest things set me off, magic exploding from me in chaotic bursts. I haven't hurt anyone—yet—but people are careful to keep their distance.

Dante was right about one thing: my emotions are my trigger. Anger is a constant companion, a cellmate shackled to me, shadowing my every step. What's worse is that now my inner wolf is riding me hard, snapping and snarling at any minor inconvenience, craving to run free.

Basically, I'm going fucking insane.

My daily schedule has solidified, a series of lessons teaching me how to fight and how to master any powers I may or may not have. I learn about the history of witches, the first wardens and their children, who later gave rise to the major family lines. I am taught court etiquette, how to curtsey, how to speak to servants.

The last part is the bit I hate the most.

Over the centuries, my family tree has thinned substantially, and I am the last remaining descendant of the final, lonely branch. At first, I argued with the tutors about my uncle, Kage, but they made it clear that the King women have always been the ones with the power. In short, according to them, Kage is completely inconsequential—he might as well not even exist.

As the last legitimate female King heir, I'm afforded a certain amount of respect—at least, that's the line my tutors feed me. I am to be put on display, an ornament on the king's arm, a mimicry of the true crown jewel he actually desires—my mother. Bastian forces me to attend dinner every evening, during which Dante and I simmer with barely concealed hatred for each other. At least, on the evenings he deigns to join us.

In total, I have destroyed seven tablecloths, four plates, three wine glasses, and one baby grand piano—all thanks to my magical outbursts. I can't even say that it bothers me anymore. The look of absolute fury on Bastian's face when the piano splintered into black and ivory smithereens is the only thing to make me truly laugh in weeks.

Mallory taunts me each morning during training, circling me like a cat with a mouse, and each day it becomes harder and harder to keep myself from snapping. I haven't been able to control any threads of power since the first day of sparring, and she seems to get more furious each time I fail. I'm barely able to defend myself against her onslaught, with pisses me off to no end.

But one day, seemingly at random, things start to get...interesting.

The night of my twenty-sixth evening in literal hell, Jenna helps me into a ridiculously fancy gown—and by helps, I mean forces.

"I look like a clown," I groan as Jenna laces up a frilly lavender dress. It's ostentatious, the skirt filled with tulle and covered with all sorts of lacework, with a low, square neckline and sleeves.

"The king himself requested that you look presentable this evening," she explains with a laugh. She has already put my hair into a complicated mess of a braid, and I think she managed to put some makeup on me before I squirmed out of her grasp.

"Am I not normally presentable? It's not like I parade around butt ass naked," I quip, exasperation making my voice harsher than the tone I typically use with her.