I can feel the heat of his glare, but I refuse to look away from his hands and, after a moment, he does as I ask, his mouth tightening with every pass of the bandages until finally he’s pinning the end down at the back of my hand. The pressure is grating, worse when I move, but with a deep breath I ease my magic into my hands to burn the edge of my pain away.
“You don’t have to do this.”
I move each of my fingers slowly, testing the bandages and finding them secure. I arch an eyebrow at Soren and extend my arm, my sword appearing with another pop of light. His jaw clenches as he grinds his teeth, but I ignore him. This is reckless and a little spiteful, a shameful game to play that I’m too old toexcuse, but still I push at the male to see how long it takes for the guilt to give way and the scornful prince to return to torment me.
The sword swings easily in my hands, my movements slower than usual but still effective. “There, proof there’s no need to worry on my behalf. I might not win against you or a soldier under your command in this state, but I can certainly defend myself against any of Prince Mercer’s males. I didn’t see any worth my concern, did you?”
He doesn’t pry his jaw open to answer me, instead waiting until I put my sword away before he strides to the door and opens it, gesturing for me to go ahead. Just outside, Tyton blinks at his cousin’s seething fury and cringes, glancing at me as though checking that I’m still breathing.
“Someone is going to die tonight. I’ll put a sack of gold on that bet.”
Roan cuts him off, “No one would take it. One look at him, and they’re all going to run screaming. Let’s get this over with.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Soren
Rooke's nerves haven’t improved since she woke from the terrors, her movements stiff and her eyes vigilant, as though expecting an attack. As we make our way down the staircase, her feet are steady once more, but her pallor is awful, almost as pale as my own, and her calm demeanor is gone. No matter how well she's holding herself together, or the assurances she’s given, it's all a carefully crafted act to hide the toll today has taken on her.
The soldiers stationed within the castle all drop their gazes from her as we pass, but it’s not respect or fear of my reaction that compels them. It’s disgust, and with every step that rings out on the marble floor, Mercer’s death at my hands grows more violent in my mind. The castle is older and far grander than Yregar, but Mercer has turned it into a pale comparison of Yris, his own little court to hold sovereignty over.
It’s pathetic.
An undercurrent of fear runs through the halls, which are inlaid with silver and polished to cold perfection, but it’s fixed on the wrong male.
Roan watches my Fates-blessed mate as closely as I do—as we all do—and when I slow my pace down at Rooke’s labored breathing, he shoots me an irate look. Forcing her to endure this ostentatious gathering of Mercer’s household under the guise of a celebration is the final straw for him, and now his ire is a seething fury bubbling at the surface, ready to spill over at the first twitch of an eyebrow in the wrong direction. He’s spent too many years on the receiving end of petty court games and the disrespect that can cost thousands of lives if mishandled; the civil war with the Briarfrost bloodlines that tore the kingdom apart can attest to that. The Outland heir is going to spill blood tonight and call it on my behalf.
I’ve already lost the battle of holding myself in check, he can join me in tearing Yrell apart for all I care.
Reed glances between us both, his gaze never once touching Rooke as he senses the animosity and knows what will come of it. With a very careful sort of preparation, he shifts into a fighting stance even as we walk. Rolling his shoulders back and checking that all his weapons are secured within easy reach for the fight ahead, his gaze moves over the soldiers we pass as though he’s counting them, tracking where they are and what weapons they hold. This is the difference between the Outland soldiers and the arrogant, spoiled males under Mercer’s command.
Reed is prepared to die here, with honor and by our side, without question. He’s also going to be sure to kill as many of our enemies as possible on his way to the ashes, holding out until the very end. The dozens of soldiers we pass don’t change that conviction in him; if anything, they only push him further.
His bearing hardens as we come to the doors of the great hall, proving beyond a doubt that I made the right choice showing him mercy for his treason, no matter the precedent it set.
If only I could convince the Unseelie nature within me of the same thing.
The possessive rage that took hold in my gut when we met at the outer wall and it became clear they rode down on Northern Star there together was slaked only by Reed’s bowed head and total submission to my command. It certainly didn’t help that Rooke held on to him easily as he helped her onto Nightspark behind me, while I was forced to drag her into my body rather than allow her to fall from the horse.
When Rooke’s feet falter at the door, the tiniest slip, we all freeze, but none of us reach out to help her. With her flinches and the guarded way she’s holding herself, any attempt to offer her aid would surely become a spectacle, and it’s not worth the risk of revealing her weakness to Yrell. Roan meets my eye, his jaw clenching, and he gives me a curt nod as he forces his shoulders to relax, cloaking himself with the air of the unaffected prince once more.
The soldiers at the doors bow deeply to me before they move to open them, our arrival announced to the party. We step into the great hall, now bustling fervently with life, as though the occupants’ deaths weren’t thwarted only hours ago at the city gates.
Prince Mercer’s household is made up of at least a thousand royals and nobles, all of them in attendance, dressed in their finery as they dance around each other and play their twisted games. Dozens of tables laden with food are set out, but the fare is far more sparse than these numbers need. It’s the only sign of the desperation the prince has found himself in, the only one that can’t be hidden in lace and diamonds and silken words.
Prince Mercer’s servants must spend countless hours ensuring the plight of the kingdom doesn't show within the halls of Yrell. Every surface is immaculately clean, every luxury he affords himself has been meticulously cared for now they’renot so easily replaced, but no amount of hiding will fill hungry bellies when the food runs out.
We cross white marble floors inlaid with silver and blue, weaving into the Celestial crest that declares this castle one of our many ancestral homes. It was given to Mercer by his father, and his father before him, the mantle passed on for his bloodline to be the caretaker of the city and the fae folk within.
Instead, he throws banquets and sits before his spoiled household like an indulgent hag-spawn while his people suffer outside the iron-infused gates.
I've been here when the Unseelie Court has called to stay, and though he doesn't treat the regent with any more respect than he treats me, there’s a caution to his tongue that’s absent now, an awareness of my uncle's games and the viciousness of his temper. Ignoring calls for aid is the very least of the regent’s arsenal, and we all know it.
The crowd in the great hall is too meek to approach me or my household. Whether cowed by the fury that must be sitting stark across my face or Rooke’s presence at my side, they never let their eyes truly gaze on me, their stares only ever making it to my feet as they watch our entrance.
I stalk across the room, Roan in my wake while Tyton and Reed flank Rooke between them as I commanded. When the room returns to its frivolity without regard, my cousin steers my Fates-blessed mate to a table of food to get her away from the conflict about to erupt.
Mercer bows deeply to me, an arrogant grin crossing his face as he gestures around. “The battle is won, Your Highness! There’s no need for such a somber look while we celebrate the demise of the filthy witches.”
