“I see.”

She searched his face, as if seeking answers there. “In that moment, you looked so cold and so much like your father—I . . . didn’t like it.”

All his life, he’d been told how much he was like his father—in both looks and temperament. Eventually he’d learned to stop fighting those comparisons, though they never ceased to unsettle him.

“I must admit, lately I find I do need to be like my father. There are certain situations that practically require me to be as cold and ruthless as possible. If I were to have shed tears over every life I’ve taken over the last year, I’d have dried to a husk long ago. So, yes. I suppose I am quite like my father in many ways.”

“No.” Cleo shook her head. “That’s impossible.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Honestly?” She drew closer to him, cupping his face in her hands. “Because I’ve never wanted to do this to your father.”

She brushed her lips softly against his. A small, tortured groan came from the back of his throat as he forced himself to make fists with his hands at his sides to stop himself from taking hold of her immediately.

“Princess . . .”

“Cleiona . . .” she corrected him, her lips still far too dangerously close to his. “Although, I must admit that I no longer fully appreciate having been given the full name of an immortal who stole and murdered for her power.”

“True leaders often must be ruthless enough to steal and murder. If they don’t, someone else will.”

“A charming philosophy, all too true, I’m afraid. But perhaps we can think of something else for you to call me when we’re alone together.”

He raised a brow. “I’ll consider it.”

“Good.” She bit her bottom lip, drawing his attention back to her mouth. “Now close the door. And lock it.”

“That is a very, very dangerous suggestion.”

“Or leave it open. Perhaps I don’t care.” Cleo kissed him again, parting her lips this time. He found his composure and restraint slipping away with breakneck speed as her tongue slid against his.

“I truly don’t wish to tell you no,” he whispered against her lips.

“Then don’t.”

Magnus groaned again as her hands slipped down his chest and beneath his tunic to slide over his abdomen and chest with no barrier between them. He gripped her waist and pressed her down upon the bed, covering her completely with his body. She was so small, yet so strong, so passionate.

How could this callous world create a creature so beautiful? If her beauty wasn’t a gift from the goddess, it surely had to be a gift from her mother . . .

Suddenly, Magnus jerked upward, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What?” Cleo gasped, her cheeks flushed.

He pushed up to his feet and gathered his cloak. “I need a drink. I’m going to investigate the tavern up the road.”

Cleo lay on his bed, watching him, her hair a half-mussed arrangement of golden curls cascading over her shoulders all the way to her waist.

Utterly, painfully, tempting.

“I understand,” she said quietly.

He was about to leave without another word, but he turned back to face her.

“Before I leave, know this. When the day comes that this curse is broken, I promise you that the door to whatever room we’re in will be locked, and I’ll allow nothing or no one to interrupt us.”

With that, he turned away and left her there, staring back at him.

Yes, he desperately needed a drink.

• • •

“Wine,” Magnus grunted at the barkeep as he entered the shabby but lively tavern known as the Purple Vine. He slid several coins across the bar. “Make sure you refill my glass whenever you see it empty,” he said. “And no conversation.”

The barkeep smirked, then greedily swept the coins off the counter and into a ratty old purse. “Very well.”

The barkeep did as Magnus requested and paid much attention to the level of liquid in his cup. As Magnus drank gulp after gulp of the sweet Paelsian wine, the night began to look much brighter. The last time he’d tasted wine, he’d returned to the Limerian palace to find his wife making a speech. She was soon interrupted by enemies who barely let him escape with his life. After that experience, he’d considered completely swearing off the drink.

Cleo’s visit to his room tonight had certainly made him revoke that vow.

“Our entertainment might put you in a better mood, friend,” the barkeep said, despite Magnus’s request for silence. Magnus was about to reproach him when the barkeep made a nodding gesture toward the middle of the tavern. “I promise you that the Goddess of Serpents is rather a spectacular sight to behold.”

Goddess of Serpents? Magnus rolled his eyes and pointed at his glass. “More.”

Someone on the other side of the huge tavern hushed the boisterous crowd as the barkeep poured more wine into Magnus’s cup.

“All will worship at the feet of our resident beauty!” the man across the room called out. “Bow before her incredible power. And welcome the Goddess of Serpents!”

The crowd responded with great hoots and hollers as a young, dark-haired woman, scarcely clothed, with a large white snake draped around her neck, appeared on a small stage. Next to the stage was a trio of musicians who began to play an exotic tune that sounded more savage than intoxicating to Magnus. As the music began its first crescendo, the young woman began to writhe about in what might be considered by some to be a dance, but to Magnus it looked more like the solicitations of a courtesan.