Reagan’s voice carried a deceptive confusion. “No?”
I clamped my jaw shut to stop the smile rising inside me.
“Respectfully, My Lord, we were outraged,” Castor continued, “to hear plain threats from Mountheim Hall. Mr Ilya led us to believe you would strip our lands unless we removed the tolls on all goods passing through. That toll is a security measure. We were shocked that such an order could come from you.”
Silence clamped down on the room.
Reagan remained unmoved, feet planted shoulder-length apart. Meanwhile, Varian frowned at the Highlanders.
“That is,” Castor added, “until your other emissary informed us that you never issued the command.”
Finnegan stepped forward to join Castor and Zephyr. His head bowed with the reverence expected of a man reporting to his lord.
“I clarified the misunderstanding,” Finn said, “and presented our real proposal, with the compromise on the tolls.”
Varian shook as if he was about to lurch forward and throw himself at Castor or Finn.
“You shouldn’t,” I said under my breath.
His attention cut to me, staring at me in disbelief, as if he had forgotten I existed. I watched the moment the realisation settled. His gaze darted between Reagan and myself, his mouth parting in dawning horror.
Reagan was still speaking. “…and I would never coerce an estate steward. Nor did I order hostility after all your town has endured.” He turned his head, his gaze snapping to Varian. “This was an odious practice. I would never consider it.”
Varian’s mana brushed like moss against my skin, a flux pulse that betrayed the panic he was struggling to contain.
Nights ago, Reagan had explained exactly how this would unfold. He had questioned the value his cousin would bring to the staff after they discussed the unrest in the Highlands, just enough to wound Varian’s pride. A man like Varian could not bear the implication. He would seek to prove himself, and his ambition would do the rest.
Finn had contained the fallout, planning with the steward and laying the groundwork for this moment. And Caed had done more than resolve the unrest. He had exposed the true nature of Varian Ilya. In front of hundreds of citizens.
A wicked heat surged low in my belly as I stared at him.
Varian spun toward me, his voice uncharacteristically nervous. “Stop this. Tell him it’s a mistake. Please, Jane.”
I looked him over. “I once begged you too, Varian.” His face tightened. “You threatened my life and his future, so consider yourself lucky. Reagan is being merciful.”
His posture snapped straight, that pride stripping him of the mask. “He is condemning me to a life of humiliation. Perhaps that is nothing for you, hiswhore, but I have a name. A reputation. If he doesn’t repair this impression, I’m finished.”
So painfully obvious. His desperation stripped even the illusion of cleverness from him.
I watched him with pure contempt, tilting my head the way he loved to do. “Then ask him. I’m only his whore after all. And step away from me before I tell the captain to remove you.”
He stepped back, his gaze sweeping the chamber, searching frantically for a way out. Then he spotted a chronist scribbling notes near the side wall. His neck strained.
“That one was my idea,” I told him lightly. “The paper loved the invitation. We will have the article distributed throughout the country. Wonderful, don’t you think?”
Varian understood this language of veiled deception. I wondered how his family in Ashenagth would react to the news of the rightful heir’s public disgrace.
His face twisted as if he’d forgotten where we were, his teeth bared in the most unhinged expression.
“Rest assured,” Reagan said, drawing our attention back to him, his voice now carrying a thread of cold violence as he stared at his cousin, “that threats against mine never go unanswered.”
Chapter 49
Reagan
The vengeful part of him snarled that it was nowhere near enough, nowhere near the suffering Varian deserved. Yet some colder, more calculating instinct reminded him that a strike like this would cut his cousin deeper than any physical wound ever could.
There would be no restoring the polished facade he had worn for years. Not unless he stood on the rooftops of Mountheim shouting his apologies and proclaiming a newfound love for the principles that held the mageborn.
