“I have my methods,” he said, then he kissed me. “Though you might wish I hadn’t. Everyone is quite angry about that stunt that you pulled.” His lips found mine again, harder this time, his teeth catching my bottom lip. “What were you thinking?”

“What were you thinking with that stunt you pulled?”

He made a noise that was both agreement and exasperation, then sat next to me on the cot, his arm strong and steady behind my back. I took in his messy hair, torn clothes, and face marked with a streak of soot. His mouth was drawn into a thin line, and I wondered when I’d last seen him smile. Or if he ever would again. How much of the truth did he know about his family? And if he knew nothing, would me telling him do any good?

“Are you all right?” I asked.

He inhaled softly, and I knew he was thinking of deflecting my question, but instead he shook his head, a quick jerk from side to side. Not all right.

“Your aunt,” I said. “She told me things about your father–”

“I can’t,” he interrupted. “Not now. I just… I don’t want to think about it. Him. Them.”

My heart ached along with his, knowing full well what it felt like to lose a parent. My mother might have died years ago, but I hadn’t known that until Anushka revealed the truth. The pain had been fresh and horrible, and how much worse would it have been if I’d lost my father, too. Or my gran?

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, then twisted around so that my knees were on either side of him. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pulled him close, feeling his breath warm against my collarbone. I carefully pulled through the tangles in his hair with my fingers while I waited to see if he wanted to talk, knowing better than to press him. He knew that I felt his hurt, and maybe that was enough.

His hand slipped under the bottom of my shirt, palm hot against the small of my back, his other hand tangling in my hair. Clinging to me as though I were the strong one.

And maybe I was.

“I wanted him dead,” he said, his voice muffled. “I planned for it.”

He had. It seemed like a hundred years ago that we’d stood in the stables in Trollus and I’d blackmailed him into telling me the truth in exchange for the return of the plans for the stone tree. Looking back, he seemed so much younger, so convinced of his emotional fortitude because it had never been tested. Not really. And now, whatever naiveté he might have once possessed was gone, burned away by pain and fear, loss and guilt. No longer a boy and a prince, but a man and, whether he liked it or not, a king.