Page 4 of Heartbreak Prince

After a glyph check to ensure no one is carrying forbidden marks, we move through a passage lit by glittering gold insects, creatures from the tunnels of Xarsi, a mountainous kingdom to the east where most of the citizens reside in caves. I want to stare at them, absorb the beauty, and maybe set them free, but there’s no time. The prince and his friends seem desperate to be more drunk than they already are.

Renfrow precedes the group out of the passage, his head on a swivel, watching every part of the room. Vawn’s friends surround him, exuding cocksure arrogance as they stride out onto the main floor. I bring up the rear, checking behind us to ensure that the club’s guards have closed the doors. When I turn around, I find myself in a world of color so dazzling that for a few seconds, I forget why I’m here.

Square pillars of transparent crystal line the edges of the room, each lit from within by fiery strands of glowing unicorn hair, twining and swirling, turning the pillars beautifully incandescent. Those pillars are the lamps of this place, each one featuring different hues of lava orange, flame red, vibrant pink, and stunning blue. Their light gleams on a floor so slick and polished it looks wet.

Tables dot the space between the pillars, and semi-circular booths are tucked into shadowy alcoves set into the walls. At one end, a band plays stringed instruments and drums. Each musician bears a glyph set that enhances their talent. On a night like this, they would use one glyph at a time, making sure to deactivate each one and let it recharge before it causes desiccation.

The sheer number of jeweled corsets, pearlescent half-masks, silver-studded leathers, and silken scarves screams luxury. Smooth bare skin, plush lips, and sparkling eyes are everywhere. But what really takes my breath away is the fixture in the exact center of the room—a crystal cylinder as big around as a watchtower, almost like an aquarium… except instead of fish, this display contains magic carpets.

They’re floating inside it like captive jellyfish, dipping over and around each other, twisting and dancing in midair. Threads of unicorn hair gleam in their intricately patterned surfaces or flash in their tassels. Their colors are so similar and their movements are so languidly mesmerizing that it’s difficult to count them, but I’m guessing there might be a couple dozen of them held captive in that beautiful prison.

Fuck, the group is moving away while I gawk at the scenery. I take a few quick strides to catch up and realize that the prince has turned back to look at me. He noticed that I lagged behind.

Vawn might be a notorious flirt, a habitual smoker, and a slut for a good time, but he’s not as oblivious as I thought. He’s definitely checking to see if I’m doing my job. Which means I probably just lost my chance at making this position a permanent thing.

I’m thoroughly pissed off at myself for getting distracted, especially since I’ve trained in all sorts of busy environments. But none were quite so dazzling and luxurious as the Lyre & Vice.

The young men head for a raised platform, featuring a large, comfortable booth. It’s near the bar, whose lengthy surface looks like a polished midnight sky dotted with pink stars. A two-story wall of incandescent liquor bottles rears high above the bartenders, who are busy mixing up drinks laced with luminous blue ice, glowing purple beads, or glittering pink sugar.

The prince settles in against the pillows in his booth. Half a dozen beautiful girls have materialized, and he seems to know them all by name.

“Merisha.” He smiles at a girl with golden skin and scarlet locks studded with crystal beads.

He says her name like an invitation, and her long legs carry her over the low table to the couch, where she snuggles in at his side. I glance at Renfrow, and he gives me a barely perceptible nod, indicating that she’s a familiar face, safe to be with the prince. Other girls find places among the men, including one with a dozen facial piercings who ends up on Vawn’s lap, to the apparent chagrin of Merisha.

A server dressed in nothing but lace ribbons and glowing body paint arrives with several bottles of liquor for the group. To the prince, he delivers a sealed box of charna cigarettes, an herb milder than emthal, with a steadying effect on the nerves rather than a euphoric one. Within minutes, the rainbow smoke from the prince’s cigarette floats in a cloud over the group.

I maintain a position at the left side of the booth, while Renfrow remains on the right. The server dips the nail of his smallest left finger into every drink before the prince sips it. That fingernail must be equipped with a glyph for poison detection. I make a mental note to investigate such glyphs, on the off chance that I do become a permanent part of the prince’s retinue.

“I want to dance,” pouts Tolgan. “Who’s going to dance with me?” He nudges Loxley, who has the unicorn horn tucked between his thighs, pointing upward at an angle.

“Suck my unicorn dick and maybe I will.” Loxley runs a hand suggestively along the horn.

I look away on the pretense of checking the exits, but in reality it’s because I want to strike him. I’d pay money to punch him right in the throat, or maybe in his actual dick, which is probably quite small.

Tolgan and Loxley push past me a second later, on their way to the dance floor. The unicorn horn lies discarded on the couch cushions. I glance at it, pained by the pearly dried blood still clinging to its root.

When I glance up, my eyes lock with Vawn’s icy gaze. The smirk on his pretty mouth makes me sick. I can’t shake the image of him activating his strength glyph and yanking the horn out of the dead beast’s skull. The brutality of that moment makes me want to punch him, too. I really need to work on my impulse for violence against the people I’m supposed to protect.

Even without the glyph, he must be strong. He’s wearing a black coat, open at the front to show his bare chest, and from the curves of his shoulders and the contours of his pecs, he’s concealing more muscle than I’d expect from the spoiled youngest member of the Molloi family.

“Guard.” The prince’s voice interrupts my ponderings. “You there, girl. The new one. What’s your name?”

My stomach twists. “Syth, Your Highness.”

“Syth?” He laughs. “What sort of name is that? Is it a nickname? A diminutive? Ah, yes, I can see by your expression that it is. What’s the long version?”

“Forsythia.”

“Forsythia,” he repeats mockingly, and the girl on his lap titters. His hand is tucked beneath her breast, his thumb stroking slowly up and down against its curve. “No wonder you chose a nickname. That’s far too flowery a word for someone like you.”

“You should grow out your hair,” suggests Merisha, her tone friendly and her eyes poisonous. “That boyish cut really doesn’t suit you.”

At least she didn’t make an odd comment about the lavender color of my hair, which I inherited from my mother. Sometimes people ask strange questions, like if the carpet matches the drapes. The answer is yes, but I don’t like carpets—I prefer waxed floors.

I should reply to Merisha with a polite Yes, my lady. Instead I say, “This hairstyle is practical for a fighter. Leaves very little for the enemy to grab onto.”

“Enemy?” The girl on Vawn’s lap giggles. “This is the Lyre, sweetheart. We come here every week, and other than the occasional drunken skirmish, there has never been so much as a hint of danger.”