Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 37517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 150(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 150(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
He's been moving people around on the board like chess pieces for decades, but I'm no pawn, and I won't be moved. I rule this kingdom now. He can take his fucking machinations and shove them up his ass.
"I don't care what you agreed to or how long ago you agreed, I'm not marrying the girl. Undo whatever the fuck you did."
"You will marry her, Troy!" he says, his voice weak and raspy. "Do you hear me, boy? You will!"
"The hell I will!" I smack my hand down on the table. Utensils rattle from the force of the blow. "I'm not a fucking pawn, Father."
"No, you're an Ulstead," he snaps, his black eyes crackling with command. The stroke may have taken his strength, but it didn't take his will. That was forged in steel decades ago and is as strong now as ever. "And you don't need me to remind you that ruling is an obligation just as much as a birthright. This is your obligation."
"Ruling is a fucking albatross around my neck," I mutter, hauling myself to my feet. "I'll be damned if it's a ring around my finger, too. If you want to forge an alliance with her family so goddamn badly, you marry her."
I don't wait for a response. He undoubtedly has one prepared—he always does when we argue. But I'm not interested in hearing him try to rationalize this. He's known about this for years—he's the one who signed the damn contract. But he only just decided to inform me now, weeks before he expects this wedding to take place.
I storm out of the dining room, my fury boiling over like molten lava, incinerating everything in its path.
I slam the door behind me, not giving a shit who hears it. My heart races as I stalk through the castle corridors, consumed with fury at the thought of him trying to control me and my future.
Ever since his stroke five years ago, I've been the one leading the kingdom. I refuse to be a puppet simply because he's the one still sitting on the throne. If he wants to play king again and throw his weight around, he can take the fucking headaches that go with the mantle of responsibility.
Members of the court avoid me as I stride toward my study, quickly slipping down hallways to stay out of my path. Good. I'm not a tolerant man. Like the man who raised me, I'm turning into a fucking despot. If there was light in him, I think it died with my mother.
If there was light in me, he smothered it.
I guess that's what happens when you live on the edge of a fucking fairytale land, but you no longer believe in happily ever after. There's a reason no one ventures to our kingdom. Despite the beauty of the kingdom, despite all our riches, despite every advance we've made, people avoid coming here. We're the reason.
Just miles away in Fable Forest, everyone lives out their best lives in their happy little magical make-believe bubbles. Not us. We're the cautionary tale people whisper about. Look what happens when the magic dies.
Ours died when my mother was killed.
All the magic and all the medicine in the world couldn't save her. She was snatched away, leaving us behind. My father died with her, though his heart still beats. He's never been the same.
I refuse to let that be me. Yet some part of me aches for that kind of love anyway.
It's infuriating.
No matter how hard I try, I can't ever seem to smother that one piece of my soul still clinging to hope. And I have tried. Christ, I've tried for years to drown it in darkness just to silence it, but it still fucking screams, demanding to be heard.
I'm not listening. I won't be lured to the shores of ruin and left broken by false promises of forever.
Hope can sing its siren song to someone else. It's done enough damage in my life.
Except…I know it's not done singing to me yet because I still fucking feel it. My one is out there waiting for me. If I go through with this marriage, I lose my chance of finding her. For good.
Entering my study, I slam the door and immediately stride to the bar set up across the room. I quickly pour myself a shot of brandy, downing it in one swift gulp.
The burning sensation does little to quell my anger. If anything, it stokes the fire, setting new embers ablaze.
"Two years," I growl. "He signed that fucking contract two years ago."
Just as I hurl the glass across the room, the door opens, and my best friend, Samson, ducks inside, narrowly avoiding the projectile.
The glass crashes into the wall next to the door, shattering into a thousand jagged pieces.
Samson turns his blond head, glancing at it. "Jesus Christ, Troy. You realize I prefer to drink from my glass, not pick pieces of it from my eye, right?"