Dark Moon Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 522. Aphrodisiac
Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 522. Aphrodisiac
The lord mistook it for interest.
“These flowers are rare,” he said, offering them with both hands. “So I thought of giving them to you.”
Rose accepted the bundle. “Thank you.”
“It is good for medicine,” he added.
“I know.”
“And it smells nice. Try it.”
Rose paused.
Just slightly.
Moonveil asters did not have a scent.
Not a strong one. Not even a faint floral sweetness unless crushed into a potion base.
Her fingers shifted minutely around the stems.
There it was.
Something brushed beneath the herbal freshness.
Warm.
Sweet.
Too sweet.
A lingering scent that curled toward the throat and tried to settle beneath the ribs.
Rose knew it immediately.
Aphrodisiac.
Not crude. Nor tavern-grade trash. This was refined, likely brushed over the petals with invisible oil. Expensive enough to be subtle. Weak enough that if anyone accused him, he could claim misunderstanding.
Unfortunately for him, Rose Ambrosia Heart had been trained to identify poisons by scent, taste, color, residue, texture, and occasionally by how stupid the person using them looked while waiting for results.
And more unfortunately for him, both she and Angel were immune to this level of manipulation.
Still, Rose lifted the flowers and inhaled lightly.
Then she smiled.
“It has a nice smell.”
His eyes brightened. “I know. It’s rare of its kind.”
“Very rare,” Rose said.
Her tone stayed pleasant.
Inside, her thoughts sharpened.
So that was the plan.
Not just separation.
Compromise.
If she reacted even faintly, if her composure slipped, if she became warmer, softer, more suggestible, then his next words would test the rest.
And if she didn’t react?
He would still gather information.
Rose lowered the flowers slightly. “You just wanted to give me this?”
He hesitated.
“No,” he admitted. “Also something else.”
Rose tilted her head. “Go on.”
He stepped closer, not too much. Just enough to imply intimacy without making it visible from the far path. “I am curious.”
“That is often dangerous.”
He chuckled, but it came out a little dry.
“You started as a political prisoner, did you not?”
Rose’s smile remained. “Yes.”
“The stories say you were engaged with the Prince of Draconis. Then The king of Euphorion snatched you. Then somehow…” His gaze flicked over her face, searching. “You became queen.”
“Stories simplify things.”
“They do,” he agreed. “So I wonder…”
He lowered his voice.
“Are you really staying beside him because of politics?”
Rose’s eyes cooled, though her smile did not move.
“Or,” he continued, encouraged by her silence, “is your husband the one who chains you?”
For a heartbeat, the garden seemed to stop.
The water trickling nearby sounded louder.
A petal drifted down between them and landed on the stone path.
Rose looked at him.
The lord still wore that careful face, but sweat had formed near his temple. He was not as confident as he pretended. Someone had armed him with questions, flowers, and a role, then pushed him forward like a pretty pawn.
Rose almost pitied him.
“You should be careful,” she said softly.
His throat bobbed. “With what?”
“With assuming every woman beside a powerful man is trapped.”
His mouth opened, but no sound came.
Rose stepped closer this time.
Like a healer approaching a wound she intended to cut open.
“Do you know what chains feel like?”
He stiffened.
She continued, voice calm.
“They are not always iron. Sometimes they are duty. Sometimes fear. Sometimes family. Sometimes a king’s insecurity dressed up as protection.”
His eyes widened faintly.
Rose lifted the flowers between them. “And sometimes they smell like bad perfume on perfectly good medicinal plants.”
Color drained from his face.
“I… I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
He swallowed.
Rose’s fingers tightened around the flowers just enough to crush one petal. The oil smeared across her glove, faint and shining. “Who gave you the idea?”
“I only meant to speak honestly.”
“No. You meant to test whether I was vulnerable, lonely, resentful, or drugged enough to answer carelessly.”
He took a step back.
Rose followed with her eyes only. “Listen to me carefully. I am not chained to Angelus.”
The way she said his name changed the air.
Not King Angelus. Not His Majesty.
A name that belonged to her mouth with dangerous certainty.
“I stand beside him because I chose him. Because he chose me. Because between chains and crowns, we made something neither Asteria nor Draconis had the imagination to understand.”