Page 53 of Heartbreak Prince

A sallow, older woman with narrow eyes surveys us, then frowns as she recognizes Vawn. “Your Highness?”

“Quietly now, Evanie, there’s a dear,” says Vawn. “May we?” And he lifts me with one arm, taking us both across the threshold.

The woman shuts the door and fastens a couple of bolts. “A visit, at this time of night? And with everything going on? How did you—” She catches herself and presses her lips together briefly. “Forgive me, Highness. It’s not my place to ask.”

“Your curiosity is only natural,” Vawn says. “Trust that I would not have come if it were not a matter of urgency.”

“Of course,” she replies. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Thank you, Evanie. You’re a gem, as always.”

She clucks her tongue. “Save your flattering words for him. You’ll need plenty of them.” She opens a large trunk against the wall of the foyer. “You’ll have to put your things in here, along with all your weapons, and take a pair of gloves to cover your glyphs.”

“Is that really necessary?” asks Vawn. “I’m a friend.”

“You’re a prince on the run, and probably desperate,” comments Evanie. “It’s the house standard. Will you comply, or shall I call Dunnel and Carver?”

“Easy,” Vawn says playfully. “No need to summon the guards. Of course we’ll comply.”

He sets me against the wall, where I manage to hold myself upright while he removes every knife from my body. While he puts the weapons into the trunk along with our satchels and the carpet case, Evanie inspects me one more time, then surveys him as well. Once she is satisfied, she opens a drawer, removes two pairs of gloves, and hands them to us.

The gloves prevent glyphs from being activated by saliva, blood, or pressure. Around the wrist of each one is a slim silver band that fastens with a tiny lock, which Evanie secures with a miniscule key that hangs around her neck.

“Go on into the parlor,” she says. “You know the way.”

She opens the lantern she was carrying and removes one of several short, glowing strands of hair, probably from a unicorn fetlock. She transfers the hair to a much smaller lantern and hands it to Vawn. He thanks her and manages to carry it while helping me through an archway into a vast parlor. It’s a dramatic space with a dark marble floor, plush purple sofas, and a dozen life-sized statues of erotically contorted human figures.

“I’ll wager he has changed the furnishings a hundred times since I was last here,” Vawn murmurs. “Always chasing the latest trends in décor as well as dress.”

“How do you know him?” I ask.

Vawn doesn’t answer until he has settled me on one of the sofas. He seats himself in a chair some distance from me. I don’t like the amount of space between us. It feels purposeful. Strategic.

“My father sent me and Erling here for a summer about five years ago, when I was seventeen,” Vawn says quietly. “As the Crown Prince, Erling handled the actual diplomacy and negotiations. My mission was to ingratiate myself to the nobility of this city, to party with their young folk and fawn over their older members. My brother ordered me to soften them up and make them like me so Zeletas would agree to a new tax deal with the crown. My brother stayed in a well-appointed inn uptown, but he arranged for me to live in this house with Galvin Steros for three months.”

My heartbeat speeds up, and a nervous sweat forms on my palms and the back of my neck. I can sense what’s coming.

Vawn leans forward, lowering his voice still more. “What I did with Steros and with others in this city was my choice. And yet I did feel rather like I was loaned out. Given as a temporary bribe, a special perk, to go along with the deal. Erling sat at tables and bargained with the nobility of Zeletas, while I did the same, only in the positions my brother thought I was best suited for—on my back and on my knees.”

He smiles at the end, a ferociously wicked expression that dares me to feel sorry for him. That grin is a cloak for any pain that might cling to his memories of this place.

He does understand my work at the Pink Lycan, far more thoroughly than I ever gave him credit for.

Before I can say anything, a rotund man, probably in his late thirties, hurries into the room, wearing an embroidered robe and fluffy purple slippers. His brown hair is thinning, a fact he can’t disguise even though he’s scraping the longest pieces across his balding skull as he approaches us.

Only his index fingers and thumbs are whole—the rest are desiccated, withered like raisins. Two of them are mere nubs. I’ve heard that desiccated fingers no longer have any sensation in them and can be more easily damaged as a result, to the point that they sometimes have to be amputated.

What could have led a wealthy man from a high-born family to overextend his magic to such a degree?

The man stares at Vawn. “By the gorge, Evanie was right. There you are. The Naughty Prince in the flesh. Still the prettiest of flesh, though you’ve gotten a bit old.”

Vawn rises with a smile that’s both gracious and flirtatious. “Galvin Steros. You look the same, my friend.”

“Friend? That’s far too cold a word, poodle. Give me a kiss, won’t you?”

Vawn bends and kisses the man’s cheek lightly. Judging by Steros’s face, I’m sure he would have preferred a kiss on the lips, but he doesn’t protest, because he has finally noticed me.

“Is that your servant?” he asks. “Pretty thing, isn’t she? You always had a good eye for a fine figure. Remember how we used to share Karmin and Vidalia whenever we weren’t too busy with each other?”