That Prince is a Girl the Vicious King's Captive Slave Mate - Chapter 419

Chapter 419:

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Emeriel’s breathing quickened in the silent room as her eyes drank him in, ravenously devouring every detail of him.

“Control yourself, Emeriel,” she told herself. “There is no bond to blame now. This is all you. Have some restraint.”

Easier said than done.

She was grateful to be alone with him. No one could see how hard she struggled, how difficult it was to be in the same room with him again. The effort it took not to rush across the room and collapse on top of him, just to feel his body against hers one more time.

The memories were the hardest.

Those stolen nights in his arms, tucked away at the cottage, making love over and over. The fog of heat and the passage of time had blurred the memories, and she had survived by blocking them.

But now, here in this room with him, the years shrank and disappeared, and it felt like yesterday.

The memories that had once been hazy were suddenly vivid, flashing clearly.

Emeriel’s whole body shook.

She stumbled back out of the room, closing the door behind her. Leaning against it, she gasped for breath. Her knees weak, her heart too fragile.

It was easier to fight for control when he wasn’t in sight.

“You are stronger than this, Emeriel. Get a hold of yourself.”

It took a while, but finally, she felt calmer. Composed, she re-entered the room and sat on the chair beside his bed, waiting until the tight constriction in her chest loosened. Until breathing became less of a struggle.

“My king,” Emeriel whispered. “Hello, my king.”

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Taking his hand in hers, she gave it a light squeeze. His feverish skin burned against her palm. “How have you been? Where are you? If you can hear me, come back. Your people need you.”

Once she started speaking, it became easier. The tight coil in her chest began to unwind.

“Very soon, the eclipse moon night will be here again. They are terrified to face it alone. There is a famine, and the younglings are starving. They looked at me—me, a human—with hunger in their eyes, instead of disdain. Can you imagine that?”

Clinging to his hand, the heat seeped into her skin. Too hot.

She rose from her chair, fetched the basin of chilled water, and a washcloth. Returning to his side, she dipped the cloth into the water, wiping his face.

“You are not leaving them in good hands, my king. Lord Zaiper is eager to rule, but he does not care about the people. Not like you do. They need you. They always need you.”

Her hand moved from his brow to his neck. His body radiated a hotness that seemed to climb higher with every passing second. Peeling back the bedding to wash his body, Emeriel gasped.

His left arm was covered in dark lines, like cracks filled with blackened blood, trailing upwards and disappearing beneath his sleeping clothes. With unsteady hands, Emeriel lifted his garment, following the grim path, tracing it back to his chest. The thickest, blackest lines pulsed from the center of his chest.

His soul was truly dying.

“Oh, my beloved,” Emeriel whispered, shakily as she stared at the mark of his slow death.

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