Wearing gloves, remember? Won’t hurt her.
He snorted. The voice of temptation was always oh, so sweet. And this time, it just happened to be right. He could touch her, and he could learn the contours of her exquisite face. He wouldn’t hurt her. Not like this.
An ache flourished in his chest, so strong he couldn’t stop his groan.
But he shouldn’t touch her. He would only want to do it again...and again...until his already-frayed resistance unraveled the rest of the way and like an addict, he went for skin-to-skin contact.
He scanned the area. Trees all around. No real clearing to allow him to see the enemy coming. He would have to—
Keeley kicked out her leg, swiping his feet out from under him. He fell, landing with a hard thump as she rolled with her momentum and ended up in a crouch of her own, right knee and left foot on the ground. One hand braced to hold her weight while the other aimed the crossbow Irish had cut from the tail of a manticore—she must have stolen it—an arrow cocked and ready.
* * *
“WELL, WELL,” KEELEY said. I’m gloating. I shouldn’t gloat. “Our audience is gone, and any potential alliance you had with the three doucheketeers has been severed. I believe I have you in what’s known as a pickle.”
A vein bulged in his forehead, a testament to his rising anger. “Feel free to eat my pickle, princess. Anytime.”
Was that anger directed at her? Or himself?
“Was that a penis joke? And I told you. I’m not a lowly princess.” She’d earned her title the hard way, thank you.
Suddenly, memories she’d locked inside a Time Out box fought for freedom. No! No, no, no. Not here, not now. She needed to concentrate on Torin, on their battle. But...it was too late, the tide too powerful. The past spilled forth and consumed her.
During her sixteenth summer, she attended a royal gala. Like every other girl in attendance, she spent the majority of her time drooling over the prince of the Curators. He flirted with her, even asked her to dance—which was when his father, the king, took notice of her.
Because she was an innocent of the upper class, the king was unable to have her without wedding her. Rules were rules, even for royalty. So he did it. He killed his current spouse and wed Keeley. Despite the fact that she refused his proposal.
But then the choice had never really been hers. What King Mandriael wanted, he received. Always. Might equaled right, and he’d been the strongest among them. Not by fate, but by force. All Curators were given a small ward at birth—except the king. That way the citizens were never stronger than their ruler.
Forcing her to say her vows had been so easy for him. A simple bolt of his power, paining her, and she’d blurted out a desperate “Yes!”
For years he’d controlled her every action, punishing her whenever she displeased him. She would have given anything to leave him, to sneak away and never return, but on the day of their wedding, a bond had formed between them. She’d hated him, but still she’d needed him.
And for all my suffering, I was not crowned queen during his rule. He’d refused. He’d also killed his heirs, including the handsome prince, so that no one would have any claim to his throne.
Against Mandriael’s knowledge, Keeley had taken measures to prevent pregnancy—her one rebellion; none of the slain children had been hers.
No, her title had come after the king stripped her nude and whipped her. In public. For daring to look him in the eye while speaking to him. Agonized and bloody, desperate, she’d cut away her ward—just wanted a taste of power. But an ocean of energy had filled her up and exploded from her—exploding the king.
Got what he deserved.
Mere hours after her coronation, however, the people she’d planned to liberate had revolted.
Queen for less than a day.
They’d ambushed her, swarming into the throne room to surround her on the royal dais. No one had carried a weapon. But then, they hadn’t needed swords and daggers, not anymore. They, too, had removed their wards and their power had battered against her, a maelstrom. But hers had still been greater, so much greater, and she’d catapulted them into the air, all at once, without any real effort.
There had been whispers among the Curators, claims the king had quashed. Some were supposedly born with the ability to not only wield the energy around them but to connect with it, manipulate it, even control it and stop others from using it. Those claims—prophecies—were written in a book that had vanished decades before, either stolen or destroyed.
She’d wondered if she could do those things...even as her people had hurtled hate-filled obscenities and threats.
You’re nothing but a whore!
You can’t keep us here forever. The moment we’re down, you’re dead.
I will dance in your blood!
Rage had brewed inside her, at last seeping out. A violent storm had risen outside, crushing everything in its path, even the palace. The Curators remained in the air, battered by ice, water and debris. But not Keeley. She’d remained untouched, unharmed. Villagers had stopped racing for cover to stare in horror as, one by one, the entire upper class burst into grisly pieces.
She’d feared hurting others, innocents, and decided there was no other recourse but to run. The villagers followed her, determined to end her and save themselves from a similar fate.
She’d spent weeks in the jungle, hiding, on her own for the first time in her miserable existence, scavenging with no real results, doing her best to survive—failing. That’s when Hades found her.