To my king, Fox, and future queen, Magenta,
Your love makes my blood sing.
Please, let me serve you.
I froze.
These letters were written by Midnight to Fox and me.
And he loved us and wished to serve us…?
I swallowed. Hecate's tit, didn't that rather blow down my moral house of cards on why I shouldn't sneak a peek? Yet Midnight hadn't given these letters to us. So, did that mean he didn't want me to see them?
Yet his love screamed even from the single line that I'd accidentally read. How could I unsee it, along with the despair that threaded through his unrequited love?
Because it wasn't a crush. I loved him too.
Why had he hidden this?
My hands shook. I had to save the Princes, including Midnight, and it needed to be at the Enchanted Ball, before Titus wrecked us all. I'd been delivered here as Midnight's snack.
Surely, I had a right to discover what I could?
Titus or letter morals? I bit my lip. How about a single peek?
I forced Fox's disapproving expression out of my mind because he'd never looked at me with anything but love before, and my magic sparked with displeasure that even imaginary Fox would glare at me.
"I beg your pardon," I muttered to the empty room. "Whoops, look how the letter slipped open on my knee... I’ll just gather it up again, shall I?"
Midnight's handwriting was as beautiful as he was. Yet the words made my stomach cramp with guilt:
I don't deserve love. I was born to obey. I'm nothing but a curse.
I winced at the sharp pain, as the thought lanced through me.
"Like I'm born to serve," I replied.
Lucifer's expression darkened, and he pressed his hand to my forehead. "Who made you think like that? Who caged your mind?"
I shoved the letters away from me, hurriedly wrapping them up in the blanket. I'd known...of course I'd known that I shouldn't have read it.
I reddened. Now I truly wished that Midnight had simply been a train enthusiast with an obsession for noisy steam trains.
Were non-magicals still obsessed with their mechanical means of travel? How sad for them not to be able to dematerialize or ride on monstrous horses.
I don't deserve love. I was born to obey. I'm nothing but a curse.
Dark magic wove through that line, as much as Willoughby's cursed silk suit. It reminded me of an incantation or ancient Mind Curses, which Byron had once told me punished with mantras.
I shuddered at the thought of any of the mantras from the Principal's Book of Mottoes looping through my mind. If I wasn't crazy now, I would be after that. Yet what if the motto was negative...underserving of love...born to be a slave...cursed?
It was appalling, unconscionable, cruel...and invisible.
How could I free Midnight? Sweet Hecate, I swore that I’d find a way.
When Midnight slipped into the bedroom, I patted at my hair. Although I was no Bask, who made love to the bathroom mirror every time that he styled himself in front of it (I had the distinct impression that he was tempted to ask it who was the fairest of them all), my bonding with my Immortals had been special, and I intended to look my best for Midnight’s.
Even if I was curled in a dog bed.
Midnight ignored me, however, staggering to the curtains and pulling them across the windows, before smoothing down the sheets on Willoughby’s bed.
He made a beautiful naked butler for the Princes.
Yet his eyes were ringed by purple shadows, and his shoulders were tight with exhaustion. When he dragged himself to the counter, pulling open the drawer to select two pairs of pink silk pajamas, I glimpsed a flash of Lysander’s emerald panties.
I flushed hot and cold, crossing my legs against the mounting desire.
Surely, he’d notice me now at his feet?
Yet Midnight only turned and laid out Lysander’s pajamas on the gleaming black bed, caressing his hands along the arms tenderly. Then he shimmied into his own pair.
When he turned back to the counter, Midnight’s ash wings were gorgeous against the pink. How much more stunning would they look wrapped in my magic?
I longed for him, but a family of killer unicorns could’ve nested in Midnight’s basket, and he was so tired that he wouldn’t have noticed.
The Sleep Deprivation Hex was a dangerous thing.
What was the official etiquette for announcing your presence as a Blood Lover in someone’s bed without making them faint from shock?
I was new to modern courting, but even though stalking appeared popular, I still believed causing a heart attack wasn’t romantic.
Perhaps, a polite cough or an offer to mix a Bloody Mary…?
Then the door slammed open, and Lysander stalked into the bedroom, vibrating with repressed fury. “How long can my royal personage stand by and do nothing…?”
I stiffened with outrage at how Lysander manhandled Willoughby, dragging him after him by the neck.
Was he choking Willoughby?
Did I need to carve Nobody Hurts My Rebels next to the D on Lysander’s forehead?
Wait, was that a paradox?
My magic exploded over Lysander like a firework. He jumped, twisting to me.
Ah, not choking, rather loosening the choking silk. Also, not manhandling, rather helping to stand.
Had Darby punished Willoughby for hours?
Surely, mine was what they called an honest mistake? Fae prejudice was a difficult thing to shrug off in a day. I attempted Bask’s innocent look.
Lysander’s eyes twinkled with amusement, however, before he demanded, “Whipping boy, is there any reason why you’ve placed an Immortal in your bed? Is she your new plushie? Do we all get one?”
I didn’t miss the way that Lysander glanced at his own bed like he hoped to find Fox sprawled in his covers with his pale limbs gorgeously on display, before finding it empty and scowling.
Midnight dropped to his knees. He peeked at me from between the veil of his hair. His charcoal eyes were wide with exhausted shock.
“M-my apologies my princes and m-my queen.” He leaned forward and whispered, “Pull out my fangs, I didn’t p-place you in my b-bed, did I?”
My heart cracked for him. He couldn’t even remember?
Lysander lowered Willoughby to perch on the edge of his ice bed.
Willoughby winced (how tight was his suit now?), and caught my look. “The Sleep Deprivation Hex is affecting Midnight’s memory. By my ears, he could’ve bitten Juni and not know it.”
I pulled a face. “That’s dangerous and disgusting.”
Willoughby inclined his head.
“Why are you here like an unwanted puppy? As much as one enjoys discovering you in my room at night,” Lysander glanced significantly at the glowing Punishment and Privilege Board and then at the swirling roof of Willoughby’s bed, “one doesn’t.”
The way that his dick hardened in his pants called liar.
I understood. Titus was woven throughout the academy, especially in the Princes’ room, and Darby controlled the ice and Willoughby’s nightmares.
In here, the Princes had to mask their true feelings. I hated that he had to hide from me.
Luckily, I’d grown to love what Sleipnir would call Lysander’s fae assholeness.
Lysander pulled off his tie, throwing it to the floor. He didn’t break his gaze from mine, as he shrugged off his blazer. He undid his shirt deliberate button by deliberate button. My mouth was dry, as his chest was revealed.