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The elder prince’s lips curled up into a sardonic smile. “There were conflicts between the elven courts following the War of Races. Views differed on what to do with the lesser races. What to do with the humans.” He paused for a moment, the room filling with a silence that seemed to hold its breath. “The Obsidian court . . . prevailed. Their king now holds the title of High King.”
Anthea’s eyes widened, realization dawning on her. “The Crimson court,” she scratched her neck, “hasn’t had a human slave in centuries. I’m the first in . . .?” Her voice trailed off, uncertainty gnawing at her. The implications of what she had just realized were staggering, and she turned to Endreth for confirmation, her eyes pleading for an explanation.
“The Crimson court has not taken a human slave in over three thousand years,” the younger prince confirmed, his voice measured. She had been right. During the conflict, the Obsidian court came up on top, the Crimson court did not.
“And the Nephrite court? The Cattleya court? The Iron?” Anthea asked. The brothers exchanged another glance, the unspoken understanding between them a secret she wasn’t privy to.
A flicker of revulsion passed across Aegonar’s face. “The Cattleya court is . . . quite proud of their collection of slaves. King Icarion himself is notorious for his method of training them. His boasting about it is infamous among the courts.”
Anthea shifted uncomfortably on her feet, feeling the sickening dread tightening in her gut. “Will Icarion be at the meeting?”
Endreth’s gaze met Anthea’s, his expression unreadable. “Yes, Icarion will be present at the celebration. It would be in your best interest not to attract his attention.”
“I will be at this celebration?”
“You will be required to be there as my personal slave.”
Her heart dropped, her fears confirmed—they were briefing her about all these courtly intricacies only because she would be directly exposed to these figures of authority. Anthea forced herself to breathe evenly, to not react, to not give them the satisfaction of seeing her squirm.
“Is there a particular reason they are coming?”
Aegonar began to pace, his boots creating a soft rhythmic echo in the room. “It is customary to pay visits to other courts occasionally, especially at the times of the moon festivals. Tomorrow will be the first day of Vesilethia.”
“There is one more court, right? Azure. Aren’t they coming?”
“No. The Azure court is not coming,” Endreth kept his eyes on her from his position at the wall. Anthea wanted to ask why, but Aegonar started talking?—
“It is paramount you play your part well, Anthea. They cannot know about your immunity to magic or your origin from another world. Everything depends on it.” The heir stopped his pacing. “The members of these courts are not known for their . . . restraint,” he added. “They will make comments, likely degrading ones. You must bear them without reaction.” He took a seat on one of the plush armchairs in front of the window. The soft light cast long shadows on his face, amplifying the sharp angles of his elven features. “You must never stray from Endreth’s side. You are to appear as his . . . personal companion. Do you understand what that entails?”
Anthea swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the cold knot forming in her stomach. “I-I understand.”
Endreth uncrossed his arms and slid them into the pockets of his dark gray robe, leaning more heavily against the wall. “When I am seated,” he said, the edges of his words sharp with discomfort, “you will either kneel at my side or perch on my lap, waiting until I rise to depart. Occasionally, I may touch you—an expectation in our society for someone in your position. You must not flinch or pull away. Better still, lean into it, your submission should be apparent?—”
“I get it, I’m to perform as the obedient pet,” Anthea’s voice was laced with a touch of bite. She met Endreth’s eyes, then Aegonar’s. Despite the rapid pounding of her heart, her voice was steady, strong. “I can play a role.”
Endreth pushed himself away from the wall, his towering figure seeming to fill the room as he closed the distance between them, robe billowing behind him with each stride. Before Anthea could even register it, he reached out with his hand, coiling it around her waist, tugging her closer. His other hand grabbed the curve of her ass.
She jerked away, raising her hand for a strike. Anger, hot and fierce, flashed in her eyes. Endreth’s hand left her ass, and fingers clamped around her wrist, stopping her.
“This is the role you must fill,” He whispered, guiding her hand, placing it against his chest. “There is no room for fire, no resistance. Only submission?—”
Anthea froze as the harsh reality of his words washed over her. She caught a flicker of something in his eyes. Regret. Remorse. Whatever it was, it was fleeting.
“I thought you said no tests today,” she dropped her palm from his chest.
“This is not a test; this is practice,” Endreth murmured as he continued his exploration, tracing the outlines of her waist, gripping her hips, and then the curve of her thigh. Practice, demonstration, or whatever it was—she had no way out of it. Anthea forced herself to relax, to let the icy chills roll off her like droplets on a feather. After all, this was a part of the act—an act she had to play. An act she had to perfect if she wanted to play these elven lords, these elven princes. Feeling another set of eyes on her, she glanced toward Aegonar, who had been silently observing their interaction.
“Is the audience necessary?” she asked, a hint of defiance coloring her tone.
Aegonar merely offered her a grim smile. “Tomorrow night, there will be far more eyes on you . . . and besides I enjoy the view.”
Far more eyes?—
“How many?” she asked as Endreth turned her around, her back against his chest.
“Hundred at least,” the Crimson heir answered. There was no malice in his tone, no hint of anything that would suggest he enjoyed seeing her squirm—despite his words. Endreth steered her toward an armchair in front of the fireplace, his grip firm around her waist. Then he eased himself into it, drawing her onto his lap. His hands remained in contact with her, one encircling her waist, the other resting lightly on her thigh. The sensation was unsettling, but she willed herself to remain composed.
The younger prince’s voice was a low murmur against her ear. “Fear in your eyes is permissible,” he said, “but no hatred, no anger. If you cannot conceal it, you must hide your eyes.” His hand left her waist, trailing upward until his fingers were entwined in her hair—gently guiding her head, so her ear was pressed against his collarbone. The steady beat of his heart pulsed against her, a rhythm that oddly comforted her amidst the daunting situation. “Close your eyes.”
