The Alpha King Marked Me. I Still Haven't Told Him I'm A Girl novel Chapter 54

Chapter 54: Fifty Four

*Valka*

"Not dressed like that, no," I say.

Lucien’s gaze drops to his clothes. Admittedly, there’s nothing extravagant about them--a simple white wool vest over a dark shirt, black leather trousers, and brown knee-high boots. But on him, they still scream wealth.

"What’s wrong with this?" he asks, genuinely baffled.

"You don’t look like common-folk," Cyrus says, amused.

Lucien’s horse tosses its head beneath him, picking up on its rider’s irritation. "And why, in all seven hells, would I *want* to look like a commoner?"

"Because," I drawl, "people tend to act differently when they know their king is coming. The gamblers, tavern keepers, and brothels put up an honest front. Officials beat the beggars off the streets. Shady merchants suddenly develop consciences for the day. And the people line up with garlands and prayers, hoping for a royal boon. In Silvermoor, we call it eye service. You walk out dressed like that, and word will reach half of Ebonheart before you do that the king is on his way." 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

The look Lucien gives me could freeze hell solid. "You know far too much about these things."

I shrug. "I used to be a peasant, remember?" My eyes travel up to his silver hair gleaming like starlight, the ink curling down his muscular arms, the ruby on his finger, the so obviously customized boots. Every inch of him screams royalty. I shake my head. "You’d stand out too much if you came along."

Lucien swings off his horse in one fluid motion. And then, without warning, he grips the hem of his shirt and pulls it clean over his head.

"Better?" he asks flatly.

I try to speak, but it comes out in a noiseless garble. The sunlight kisses Lucien’s pale skin and gods--he glistens. Marble-cut muscles flicker, his trim waist tapering into a sinful, mouthwatering V that disappears beneath his pants. It’s unfair. Offensive, even. He is so disgustingly ripped, beautiful, that looking at him is a moment of such exquisite perfection, it physically hurts my soul.

I’d accuse him of showing off, but honestly? Lucien could walk the entire kingdom stark naked and not give a damn. The man has no shame.

"No," Cyrus and I say in unison.

Ten minutes later, I have Lucien wearing the tallest stable boy’s shirt and pants, masking his scent with the smell of horseshit wafting off him. An unremarkable, tattered red hood hangs over his head, hiding his long tresses.

"You’re sure this is necessary?" He asks as I smudge his cheeks lightly with some mud.

"Absolutely," I lie smoothly. "You’re too pretty not to be noticed on sight."

He seems content with that answer, nodding, and keeps silent as I ruin his appearance even more. Partly because I’m still mad at him. Partly because I’ll probably never get a chance to mess with him like this again. Cyrus is doubled over behind us, red-faced with suppressed laughter.

"There," I say, stepping back to admire my work.

Lucien glances down at himself, then over to the stable hand still clutching his discarded garments like they’re relics. "Well? How do I look?"

"Great," I deadpan.

"Perfect," Cyrus adds, grinning.

"U-unrecognizable, si-sire," stable hand stammers.

"Like a fucking wanker," a voice drawls from the stable’s entrance.

I turn to find Evadne leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, that wolfish grin spreading across her face. She winks at me. "Thought I might crash the party. I’ve got a friend to visit in town." Her gaze slides to Cyrus and she wiggles her fingers in a mock greeting before letting her eyes rake over Lucien.

She sniffs, lips curling. "You smell like you’re full of shit."

Lucien doesn’t miss a beat. "And yet here you are, drawn to me like a fly to a carcass."

"Carcass is about right," Evadne says sweetly. "I like this version of you. All humble and peasant-smelling. Maybe we should make it a tradition."

Lucien’s eyes narrow. "You first. I’ll even find the horseshit myself."

"If you’re so desperate to play the gentleman, boy," Lucien interrupts, lazy and cutting all at once, "you can ride with this one." He gestures at Evadne without looking at her. "She’s far better company. Fewer sharp words. Less tendency to bite."

Then, we blend into the crowd.

Despite my rickety ride all the way here, I find myself in a cheery mood, walking in our bizarre group of four through the sodden cobblestones of a kingdom that seems to be alive. It’s louder, dirtier, sharper. Everyone’s hustling, selling, bargaining, thieving.

A wild-eyed merchant shoves a purple-stained vial beneath Cyrus’s nose, causing him to grimace at the sheer stench of it. "From the sacred laboratories of House Duskharrow! One drop and those who look upon you will see a beauty to rival the King himself!"

"Oh?" Lucien purrs, already fishing out four gold marks. "I’ll take three."

"It’s frog piss," Evadne says flatly as he presses a vial into each of our palms. "You do know that, right?"

Lucien clicks his tongue, affronted. "And here I was, trying to make you all almost as beautiful as me. Truly, no good deed goes unpunished."

We pass another stall, this one run by a red-faced hawker bellowing about herbs that can "rival the King’s virility" and "triple a man’s size overnight."

Lucien actually stops mid-stride, pivots on his heel, and starts to double back.

"Oh gods," I mutter. "Please tell me you’re not--"

"I just want to verify," he says innocently. "I would hate to gift my subjects any such false hope."

I didn’t think even deity had the kind of pride Lucien did. You’d think you might find it appalling, until you find yourself stripped of words, wondering where the hell a man got that much cockiness. Must be from centuries of being worshiped.

But before he can reach the stall, his hand goes to his hip--and stills.

"My pouch," he growls. "Someone’s stolen my godsdamned pouch."

"Welcome to Ebonheart," Evadne hums.