Lycidas' POV
I woke to the sting of sunlight slicing through the heavy drapes, the kind of light that felt like a mockery after the night I'd had. My head throbbed, a dull ache that seemed to echo the chaos of my thoughts. I rubbed my eyes, squinting at the room around me. It was obscenely luxurious, every surface polished to a blinding sheen, every piece of furniture carved with ornate, gaudy details. I sat up, the silk sheets slipping off my bare skin, and let out a bitter laugh.
Finn's bedroom?
The place reeked of excess, of a desperate attempt to mask something hollow. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet sinking into the plush carpet. The air smelled faintly of cedar and something metallic—blood, maybe, or the ghost of it. I stood, stretching the stiffness from my limbs, and made my way to the bathroom.
The shower was scalding, the water slamming into my skin like punishment. I leaned against the tiled wall, letting it wash over me, but the heat couldn't burn away the memories. The old king's face flashed in my mind, that smug, calculating grin that had haunted me for years. This palace - his summer retreat - was supposed to be my masterpiece. I'd designed it to be a sanctuary, a place of simplicity and elegance. But now? It was a gaudy, over-the-top monstrosity, a slave market masquerading as a palace.
I slammed my fist into the wall, the pain sharp and grounding. The old king was dead, and yet his shadow still loomed over me, over this place. I wrapped a towel around my waist and stepped out of the bathroom, my bare feet padding across the cold marble floor.
The room was sterile, impersonal. There were no traces of Finn here, no sign that he'd ever called this place home. Except for one thing.
On the nightstand sat an old iron cigarette case, its surface worn and scratched. It looked out of place amidst the opulence, like a relic from another life. I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. The weight of it felt familiar, though I couldn't say why. I tried to open it, but it was empty.
My fingers traced the engraving on the front - Sheridan Club.
Before I could dwell on it, the door opened, and Finn walked in, carrying a tray laden with food. He paused when he saw me, his eyes flicking to the cigarette case in my hand.
"Good morning, Your Highness," he said, his voice calm, measured. He set the tray down on the table and crossed the room, plucking the cigarette case from my fingers with a practiced ease. He slipped it into his pocket, his expression unreadable.
"I didn't know what you liked to eat," he continued, gesturing to the spread. "So I asked them to make a bit of everything. If it's not to your liking, I can have them prepare something else."
I didn't answer. My stomach growled, and I sat down at the table, tearing into the food with little regard for manners. Finn poured me a glass of champagne, the bubbles fizzing lazily in the crystal flute.
I looked up at him, my mouth full, and caught him watching me. His face flushed, and he quickly looked away.
Is this motherfucker in love with me? I frowned. I couldn't believe after what happened last night, he could ever fall in love with me. It seems that this fucking twisted slut couldn't tell the boundary between love and lust.
I need to teach him a lesson.
"Have you had breakfast?" I asked, swallowing a bite of something rich and buttery.
"Yes, Your Highness," he replied, looking flattered. But his voice was still steady despite the color in his cheeks.
"Then sit down and have a drink with me," I said, gesturing to the chair beside me.
He hesitated for a moment before sitting, his movements precise, controlled. I pulled his chair closer, until our knees were almost touching.
"Is that cigarette case yours?" I asked, nodding toward his pocket.
He poured himself a glass of champagne, his fingers brushing the rim of the glass as he spoke. "Yes. I've been searching for it all morning. I didn't expect to find it here."
"It's old, but you still keep it," I said, leaning back in my chair. "Is that important to you?"
He took a sip of champagne, his eyes fixed on the glass.
He didn't seem to hear me.
I frowned, my foot sliding up his leg under the table. "I'm talking to you."
"Sorry, Your Highness." he replied, his voice flat. "It's just something that I have kept for years."
I hated that about him - the way he gave nothing away, the way he seemed to exist just out of reach. I pressed my foot harder against his thigh, watching for a reaction.
"Did you sleep well last night?" I asked, my voice low, teasing.
He let out a soft gasp, his legs tightening around my foot. "I haven't slept, Your Highness. I've been dealing with some issues."
The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, so controlled, made something primal stir in me. I leaned closer, my hand brushing his knee. But before I could go further, he spoke again.
"Your Highness," he said, his voice steady despite the flush creeping up his neck. "His Majesty knows you've returned to Mediland. He demands seeing you."
The words hit me like a slap. I pulled my foot back, my appetite gone. I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, and stormed into the walk-in closet.
I yanked open the wardrobe, my hands shaking with anger. Shirts, jackets, trousers - all of them were either too bright or too garish. I couldn't find anything that didn't feel like a costume.
Finn followed me, picking out a beige shirt and holding it out to me. I snatched it from him, pulling it on without a word. He stepped closer, his fingers deftly buttoning it for me.
He must have done this to a thousand men.
And that enraged me.