The Darkest Touch. Gena Showalter

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      A vein bulged in his forehead, a testament to his rising anger. “Feel free to eat my pickle, princess. Anytime.”

      Was that anger directed at her? Or himself?

      “Was that a penis joke? And I told you. I’m not a lowly princess.” She’d earned her title the hard way, thank you.

      Suddenly, memories she’d locked inside a Time Out box fought for freedom. No! No, no, no. Not here, not now. She needed to concentrate on Torin, on their battle. But...it was too late, the tide too powerful. The past spilled forth and consumed her.

      During her sixteenth summer, she attended a royal gala. Like every other girl in attendance, she spent the majority of her time drooling over the prince of the Curators. He flirted with her, even asked her to dance—which was when his father, the king, took notice of her.

      Because she was an innocent of the upper class, the king was unable to have her without wedding her. Rules were rules, even for royalty. So he did it. He killed his current spouse and wed Keeley. Despite the fact that she refused his proposal.

      But then the choice had never really been hers. What King Mandriael wanted, he received. Always. Might equaled right, and he’d been the strongest among them. Not by fate, but by force. All Curators were given a small ward at birth—except the king. That way the citizens were never stronger than their ruler.

      Forcing her to say her vows had been so easy for him. A simple bolt of his power, paining her, and she’d blurted out a desperate “Yes!”

      For years he’d controlled her every action, punishing her whenever she displeased him. She would have given anything to leave him, to sneak away and never return, but on the day of their wedding, a bond had formed between them. She’d hated him, but still she’d needed him.

      And for all my suffering, I was not crowned queen during his rule. He’d refused. He’d also killed his heirs, including the handsome prince, so that no one would have any claim to his throne.

      Against Mandriael’s knowledge, Keeley had taken measures to prevent pregnancy—her one rebellion; none of the slain children had been hers.

      No, her title had come after the king stripped her nude and whipped her. In public. For daring to look him in the eye while speaking to him. Agonized and bloody, desperate, she’d cut away her ward—just wanted a taste of power. But an ocean of energy had filled her up and exploded from her—exploding the king.

       Got what he deserved.

      Mere hours after her coronation, however, the people she’d planned to liberate had revolted.

       Queen for less than a day.

      They’d ambushed her, swarming into the throne room to surround her on the royal dais. No one had carried a weapon. But then, they hadn’t needed swords and daggers, not anymore. They, too, had removed their wards and their power had battered against her, a maelstrom. But hers had still been greater, so much greater, and she’d catapulted them into the air, all at once, without any real effort.

      There had been whispers among the Curators, claims the king had quashed. Some were supposedly born with the ability to not only wield the energy around them but to connect with it, manipulate it, even control it and stop others from using it. Those claims—prophecies—were written in a book that had vanished decades before, either stolen or destroyed.

      She’d wondered if she could do those things...even as her people had hurtled hate-filled obscenities and threats.

       You’re nothing but a whore!

       You can’t keep us here forever. The moment we’re down, you’re dead.

       I will dance in your blood!

      Rage had brewed inside her, at last seeping out. A violent storm had risen outside, crushing everything in its path, even the palace. The Curators remained in the air, battered by ice, water and debris. But not Keeley. She’d remained untouched, unharmed. Villagers had stopped racing for cover to stare in horror as, one by one, the entire upper class burst into grisly pieces.

      She’d feared hurting others, innocents, and decided there was no other recourse but to run. The villagers followed her, determined to end her and save themselves from a similar fate.

      She’d spent weeks in the jungle, hiding, on her own for the first time in her miserable existence, scavenging with no real results, doing her best to survive—failing. That’s when Hades found her.

      A life could change in a single heartbeat.

      The entire world could change in a single heartbeat.

      Hades was the dark prince she’d considered too handsome to resist, realizing too late he’d drugged her at every meal in an effort to keep her mind fogged so that her every decision could be easily manipulated. He hadn’t known the drugs were unnecessary, that she’d been as starved for affection as she’d been for food.

      Oh, how that galled! What easy pickings she’d been. Desperate to hold on to him and make him happy. Only to be betrayed. Blindly believing everything he said. Willing to do anything he asked.

      Never again! She’d learned her lesson. Decisions should never be based on emotion. Only logic. Otherwise mistakes were made.

      And I’ve made a huge mistake with Torin, she realized. She’d hesitated to render the deathblow simply because he had a pretty face and made her insides sing with pleasure.

      “Keeley,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of her face.

      She blinked into focus, barking, “What?”

      He smiled at her, his emerald eyes twinkling. He picked up the conversation as if it had never lagged. “Think of my pickle comment as an invitation. And you don’t want to hurt my feelings by refusing, do you? I think I read somewhere that royalty is bound by stricter forms of etiquette than us regular folks.”

      How did he make her want to smile back at him rather than attack him? And why hadn’t he disarmed her and killed her while she’d been lost in her head? “This queen is going to refuse, etiquette be damned. She would prefer not to eat a pickle that comes with a side of typhoid.”

      The sparkle faded, and she actually mourned its loss.

      “Or does it come with a little black plague?” she forced herself to continue. “No? How about botulism? Lassa fever? Am I getting close?”

      “Oh, you’re getting close all right,” he said. “To a smackdown you’ll never forget.”

      “We both know the only one getting a smackdown today is you.”

      “Talk, talk, talk.” He batted her arm out of the way, then grabbed her by the neck at the same time he hooked his leg behind her ankles, tripping her.

      As she fell, she twisted to catch herself. But the next thing she knew, she was face-first in the dirt, gasping for breath, her arms locked behind her back.

      A beat of stunned silence as she regained her bearings...and realized his hard body was pressed against her. СКАЧАТЬ