Page 9 of These Vile Hearts

“That is not for me to say,” Durian murmurs before welcoming the next dryad in line to step forward.

My mouth does not open again, save for the acceptance of more wine.

The final subjects exit the throne room as the sun sinks beyond the canopy, lengthening shadows before casting the world in a graypall. I’ve had far too much wine for a Sovereign prince, but the expectations for a cursed one are of a lower bar. One of the guards who took Dahlia returns, bending to whisper something in his king’s ear. Durian nods curtly before addressing the rest of the guards in the room. “Leave us.” Tamarind glances my way, and I dip my head in a slow nod. He bows, following the final dryads and guards out of the throne room. They close the towering doors behind them, leaving me alone with my brother.

His voice comes out dangerously quiet. “You were close with Miss Redfern, weren’t you.” It is not a question.

I look down at my wine rather than at him, assembling my mask of indifference. It never fits quite right. “Not particularly.” My wine-delayed processing suddenly registers his phrasing. “What do you mean by ‘were’ close?”

The pitying look is back, mixed with something else. “I know you feel a kinship to the Nightshaders given the origin of your orphaned heartwood, but I fear it is unwise for a Sovereign prince to be venturing into the arms of shadows so recklessly.”

At the wordorphaned, my hand flexes, and I wish for a fifth goblet of wine.

Dryad families are complicated networks of clustered trees connected by their roots. When mortal loggers choose to cut some but not all the trees in a forest, they can leave dryads orphaned. The only tree in their root system. The most powerful fae trees, like the Sovereign Tree, grow more heartwoods from their branches, creating heirs to take over when the previous one dies.

Typically, only Sovereign kings are born from the Sovereign Tree. But, if a sapling is adopted, their heartwood—a dryad’s soul—is grafted with the family tree in a druidic ceremony. Mine was the first Sovereign adoption, and it shocked and delighted the kingdom. The Sovereign Tree had stopped producing heirs years before.Durian and his brother, Cyperus, were the final two. My adoption should have been a promise of posterity, but then, Cyperus hadn’t known the Sovereign Tree would retaliate. Hadn’t anticipated it would turn me into an abomination.

“What do you mean by ‘were’?” I repeat, standing now.

“She’s gone,” he states.

Realization slips over me. Hot blood roils in my veins as the dark truth looms. Dahlia wasn’t just sent out as a courtesy to the patiently waiting subjects. She was sent todeath. “You had herkilledfor a throwaway threat she clearly didn’t mean?”

“Treason is unacceptable, Castor,” Durian states simply. “Casual threats of violence against the Sovereign Tree are not to be tolerated.”

My fury is immediate. I want to draw on all my rotten power and send it barreling into my brother’s chest, to break this goblet in my fist and drive the jagged edges into his face. If the Sovereign Tree would allow it, that is. Its magic keeps Sovereign heirs from harming one another—a protective mechanism given the power-hungry nature of so many fae royals. A quality I most certainly did not inherit when my heartwood was grafted to this most ancient giant.

“I did not have her killed, Castor. She was meant to be jailed in the Bloodwood Tree.” His words are slow and pointed, as if he’s speaking to a child who is on the verge of a meltdown. “But by the time they closed the cell, she was already gone.”

“How—”

“You said you weren’t close to her, but did she feel close to you?”

The implication in his words crashes over me. All the fury I wish to direct at my brother turns inward, eating away like flames in the heart of a lightning-struck tree.

It was my curse.

Dahlia must have gotten too attached somehow. From just those few extra nights. She was among the most empathetic of those I’vepaid to spend the night with me. Too empathetic, it seems. While it wasn’t my hand that took Dahlia’s life, I have an uncanny way of drawing lovers into danger’s path. Almost as if my curse seeps into their thoughts, whispering words of compulsion. Even if it’s not in their nature to do so—like storming to the Crown District and shouting treasonous remarks in front of an ogling crowd.

Sinking into my throne, I cradle my head in my hands. “It’s my fault.”

I feel a firm hand on my shoulder. A tight squeeze. “Seems it is growing stronger,” he says in a sympathetic murmur. “Ah, dear brother. There is no need to feel guilty. Your curse is not your fault, as I have told you time and again. It cannot be helped.”

I shrug away from him, but it’s half-hearted. The pressure builds in my eyes, a lump starting in my throat. My teeth clench so hard my jaw pops.Don’t.

“Cyperus should never have adopted me. This all could have been avoided.”

Durian’s hand moves from my shoulder as he sinks, straight-backed, on the Sovereign Throne. “Are those tears in your eyes, brother?”

As if spoken into existence, the tears spill over, burning my cheeks with their treason. Every muscle tenses up as I will the emotion away.Stop.Please juststop.

“Don’t give up all hope now. The Sylveris Solstice is over a fortnight away. There’s still time to find a mortal to fall in love with you.”

“I’ve gone to a mortal town nearly every week for months,” I grind out.

He nods slowly, a wry smile showing itself. “Perhaps if you borrowed time from your sojourns to Magesté?”

“Thank you so much for the helpful advice, brother.”