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I take a deep breath and try to mimic his composure. “So that threat she made to skin me alive was an act?”
“Not in the least. I’ve seen her do it before. Don’t take offense, though. She doesn’t like anyone. She barely tolerates me.”
I shudder. “Has she threatened to cause you bodily harm?”
His eyes flicker to my mouth. “She has suggested doing a few things to my body, but I doubt any of them would cause me harm.”
My words get caught on my tongue. I don’t know what’s more surprising—that Zander so casually said it or that one of his war chiefs would have the gall to proposition him.
Zander’s eyes sparkle with amusement as he watches me search for a suitable retort. He enjoys flustering me.
“And does she know she’s not your type?”
“And what is my type, pray tell?”
This is not the time or place to be having such a conversation, and yet I find myself leaning in to whisper, “Smiley, agreeable, meek. Isn’t that what worked for me last time?”
Zander’s stern attention shifts to the approaching procession. “You’re certainly none of those things anymore.”
The soldiers stop a few feet from the dais and part, leaving the scruffy men with shackled wrists alone in a line.
“Come forward,” Zander commands, all hints of his relaxed, playful tone disappearing.
The prisoners are shoved. They stumble, two of them falling to their knees.
The rough treatment trips a memory of Boaz pushing me into the tower and my knee smashing against the stone. I wince before I can stop myself.
Zander’s hand squeezes mine, and I sense the warning in the simple move. Everyone is watching for my reaction. I can’t show sympathy for these Ybarisans, regardless of my reason.
Only one man manages to stay on his feet, and when he looks up and sees me sitting on the throne, his blue eyes widen with shock.
“You believed your beloved princess dead, did you not?” Zander taunts. “Unfortunately, you failed to kill her as you failed to kill me. Fear not, the union between Ybaris and Islor will still take place, and Ybaris will receive nothing in return. I cannot wait to see what sort of offspring she will produce with Malachi’s demon.” Zander’s goading him. He enjoys doing that. He’s done it to me.
“I demand a parley,” the man says in a deep, authoritative tone that makes me think he is more than simply a lackey soldier.
He’s quickly brought to his knees with a swift kick from Abarrane. “You will not speak unless given permission, prisoner,” she hisses. “And you will not demand anything of the king.”
“But I am—” His words cut off with a grimace, the point of Abarrane’s sword digging into his nape.
“Not another word, or I will slice your voice box with my blade.”
The man presses his lips tightly. He lifts his gaze, not to meet Zander’s but to meet mine. In those eyes is a deep recognition as he silently pleads with me.
Princess Romeria must have known him well.
I assume he is the leader of this lot. They look ragged and weak, their wrists bound, their clothing tattered, their faces bruised and bloodied and scowling with pain. Each of them has a gaping wound across their forearm, as if someone methodically slashed them.
I check Abarrane’s sword. It’s been cleaned of gore and gleams like Zander’s dagger, which was forged with merth. And if these prisoners are all Ybarisans, then it is safe to assume they have affinities to an element. She must have slashed them all to keep them from using those links as weapons, as Zander did to me.
“How many of you are left in our lands?” Zander asks.
Silence answers.
“Where are you hiding?”
More silence.
Abarrane presses the tip of her blade into the brunet’s neck. “You will answer. Now!”
