Black Rose: Married To The Psycho Prince

Cyrus makes it to the hall.

My gaze meet Valerius' silver. One is urging the other to make a move, on the chessboard addled with trap doors and false walls.

It's a tricky situation.

Two princes, unsure of what to do, and the one I need to be with getting further and further away. I could give up right now and take whatever punishment Valerius has in store for me. Drugging a prince seems like too much work, anyway.

Hah. Who am I kidding?

The thought scares me into moving.

No way am I placing myself in Valerius' hit list. Plus, I can consider Cyrus a practice round, as disastrous as the consequences would be.

Thinking on my feet, I pull out the vial and pour whatever's left of it into my mouth, making sure not to swallow. It tastes like nothing, surprisingly, and it's lighter than I imagined, like fog entering open fields.

I chase after Cyrus, not a single sensible plan in my head. The prince's silhouette draws closer and closer. Maybe I can take it back and run the other direction, maybe not.

Regardless, something needs to be done.

I grab his collar with both my hands.

Our lips collide, awkward at first, uncertain. If he pushes me away out of disgust, this would've been for nothing. A humiliating failure. And I'd be deemed promiscuous by the most reputable prince in the bloodline.

That's precisely why I need it to work.

Please work. Please work. Please.

Then, he melts.

The prince is a good kisser, which is unsurprising. He's good at almost everything—good at managing, good at winning people over, good at keeping envy in check and attraction at bay.

A twisted part of me wants to break the illusion.

Cyrus' hands are gentle when he pushes me away, his eyes wide and mouth agape. He's shocked beyond belief, stuttering over a syllable. It's an endearing sight. The way he's disheveled is adorably out-of-character.

Still, Cyrus looks conflicted. He searches for an explanation. I struggle to defend myself, with the green liquid still sloshing in my mouth.

So taken by my impulses, I forgot to think my plan through. Shit. How do I take it back? How do I give him the poison?

Something flashes in Cyrus' eyes. Call it wishful thinking, but I think it might be desire. Sincere, vulnerable, nothing I've seen on his face before.

He looks like an angel descended from heaven, purifying mortal eyes. I'd be his demise, a killer of the divine.

Surprising me and himself, the prince pulls me back into the kiss, moving with abandon. He's reckless, wilder than I thought him capable, as his hands travel from the back of my neck to my waist, grip unrelenting.

His lips consume mine. Before he can do the honor, I push the liquid into his mouth. Forced to swallow whatever I give him, Cyrus takes the green liquid, and he takes much more than that.

Our bodies don't stray from the spot, but they exist in constant motion. My hands are on his face, in his hair—tugging, pulling. Why am I kissing him and why does it leave my skin burning?

I push Cyrus away.

God. What was that?

We stand there, two royals in a hallway, intertwined, panting. I have no idea what to feel, what to do.

"Penelope," He whispers the name like a prayer. Momentarily, I forget it's mine.

There's nothing I can say except, "My prince, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"No," He shakes his head. "Don't apologize."

There's a plead there. Don't apologize. Don't call it a mistake. His fingers are shaking when they caress my face.

Sadly, I feel no remorse.

"He isn't the one you should be apologizing to." A voice interrupts. Almost immediately, I'm brought back to reality. Valerius.

We leap away from one another. Prince Cyrus withdraws, returning to his shell. He looks composed, untouchable. The flush on his skin fades, all that's left is pale patches illuminated by the moonlight, flawless as a stone statue.

"You left your dearest husband alone with a drunk and you kiss his brother. Are you out to break my heart, princess?" Valerius teases, stepping into the space between us.

If only there was a heart to break.

"It's not what you think it is, brother. I came on to Princess Penelope. She's innocent." Cyrus explains, shielding me from blame.

A rather noble deed, considering the betrayal I committed seconds ago, stuffing his mouth with poison. My heart breaks for him a bit, but I have no real empathy for the cruel.

Valerius and Cyrus are the same. Identical passages written in different fonts. It's one or the other.

My husband laughs, sinister. "Spare me the lies, brother. I'd rather not play this game right now. Kneel."

Something strange happens a moment later. Cyrus' eyes glow green and the once untouchable prince is brought to his knees—a sight I never thought I'd be graced with.

"What did you do to him?" I ask.

"Don't look at me like that," My husband retorts. "You were the one who did all the work."

"What was in that potion?"

Valerius shrugs, crouching down in front of his brother. He whispers something into Cyrus' ear and Cyrus says something back, hypnotized. I can't quite catch the words.

After, Valerius nods, "Forget."

A thump.

Prince Cyrus' body lies limp on the ground. Valerius searches his pockets. The fallen prince snores throughout his brother's tampering, defenseless to the violation.

There's no point in asking. Whatever is going on with the two problematic brothers is between them. At the very least, Cyrus isn't dead, which means the kingdom isn't at risk.

Valerius, however, is alive and well. He tosses something in the air. Moments before the trinket reaches the ground, I catch it.

I want to celebrate. I do. But the time and place are barely appropriate.

Wordlessly, I search for Alloy, whose salvation waits in my hand. The trinket has been secured. With my end of the contract fulfilled, I've come closer to my goal.

Before I can make a hasty escape, Valerius takes a step towards me.

His presence is imposing, squeezing the breath out of my lungs. It's easy to forget the other prince on the floor. Details are barely significant when I'm trapped between a wall and the body of an experienced solider.

My heart leaps out of my chest.

I hate Valerius. I hate how his attention consumes my logic.

"You're a surprisingly useful tool," Valerius praises.

For a defeaning moment, blood rushes into my ear drums. A rush, sickeningly sweet, invades my lungs. I wonder if it's Penelope's muscle memory, to experience a wave of euphoria when faced with this sick bastard's approval.

"Is that all you have to say?" I clutch my fingers around the trinket. The grip borders on painful, but I don't withdraw—I need something to anchor me before I'm carried away by my impulses.

Valerius hums. Smirks. Moments later, he walks away.

What in Willowhold was that?