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“I want Lord Farquar to suffer for what he’s done, and if I go to his house tonight, I’ll kill him much too quickly. I would see him rot in a cell for the rest of his days, and you’re the key to achieving that. You’ll give me the contract he signed and testify against him before the king and court, and I’ll keep you alive. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes,” he said immediately. “We do.”
“Excellent.” Auberon took up his position by the door once again. “Fetch the contract and get dressed, and then we’re leaving.”
Vick cautiously rose, still cradling his injured hand, and picked up the dagger Auberon had tossed onto the desk. Auberon tensed, reaching for the sword at his hip, but the tavern owner only sank to his knees and pried up one of the floorboards near the foot of the bed. He extracted a small box from the hidden compartment.
“Lord Farquar came to me yesterday afternoon and told me to send some men to the Royal Theater,” Vick said as he pocketed a few of the trinkets. “When the opportunity presented itself, they were to attack you and Lady Riona and make it look like a murder-suicide. No one would question it, he said. Not with the way you look at her.”
Auberon winced.Is it reallythatobvious?
Vick handed him a folded piece of parchment, then moved to the wardrobe and began pulling clothes on over his long sleep tunic. Auberon unfolded the paper and skimmed the contents, his gaze lingering on Lord Farquar’s elegant signature. He had no proof that Farquar had been working under the king’s orders, but it couldn’t possibly be a coincidence that they’d been attacked the very night they’d returned from the Howling Mountains. The king had chosen to silence them, after all.
“Alright,” Vick said after he’d finished gathering his belongings in a small canvas bag. “Where are we going?”
Auberon folded the contract and slipped it into his pocket. “To the castle.”
* * *
Dread had formed a heavy weight in the pit of Auberon’s stomach by the time they arrived at Valerian’s house. He knocked, and after several excruciating seconds, a grim-faced Kentari guard opened the door. Behind him, Valerian was slumped on one of the armchairs in the sitting room. He looked awful—his clothes rumpled, his skin sallow, his eyes glazed with fatigue—but he was alive.
Auberon shouldered past the guard. “Riona, is she—?”
“She’s alive,” the duke said, grimacing. Auberon’s knees nearly gave out at the relief that washed over him. “She’s resting in the bedroom. Who’s that?”
Vick had followed him inside and was lingering on the threshold to the sitting room, gaping at the duke’s sickly appearance. Auberon pushed him into the other armchair none too gently. “This is the man who sent those sell-swords after Riona and me. I promised him my protection if he agreed to testify against Lord Farquar.”
Valerian sat up straighter. “Farquarordered the attack? Why?”
“I haven’t made very many friends in the time I’ve been here, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“Don’t be short with me because you’re exhausted and in pain. I told you to stay and rest.” The duke slumped back. “I assume you’re responsible for that man’s broken hand, but don’t expect me to tend to any more wounds tonight. I’d keel over if I tried to heal so much as a paper cut.”
“He can tend to his own wounds,” Auberon said, shooting a sharp look at the tavern owner when he opened his mouth to object. “I just need to see Riona.”
Valerian waved a hand in the general direction of the bedroom. “Be my guest.”
His heart in his throat, Auberon walked down the hall and slowly, quietly opened the bedroom door. Riona lay on the bed, fast asleep, a thick blanket draped over her. Valerian had cut away the rest of her ruined tunic, leaving her in the wide band of fabric that covered her breasts, and bandaged the wound. Her head was turned toward him, the light from the hearth playing across her closed lids, her high cheekbones, her full, parted lips.
She was alive.
She wasalive.
Moving as silently as he could, Auberon picked up one of the armchairs near the hearth and set it beside the bed. Ever reliable, Valerian had left a pile of bandages, a spool of thread, and a needle on the bedside table. A bowl of water and a rag sat on the floor by one of the legs. Auberon removed his overcoat and ruined doublet and set them aside, then soaked the rag in the water and carefully cleaned the drying blood from his wounds. He shouldn’t have left them unattended for so long. A few of the worst cuts were red and inflamed from his trek across the city.
He sterilized the needle in the lantern’s flame before setting to work. The gash in his upper arm wasn’t very long, but it was deep, and blood leaked out over his fingers as he worked the needle through his flesh. Pain shot through him with every tug of the thread. He clenched his teeth as he moved to a cut along his ribs, then another just above his hip, distracting himself with memories of that night. Riona cupping his face in her perfect, delicate hands. Riona swaying with him, her body pressed against his. Riona kissing him.
Riona asking him to marry her.
As he tied off the last line of stitches, a weak voice whispered, “You’re beautiful.”
Auberon looked up and found Riona’s stunning blue eyes trained on him, trailing over the faint marks that marred his torso. Marks that were not befitting of a prince. “How long have you been watching me?”
“Not long enough,” she said, and those three words made his heart race. A faint smile tugged at her lips. “What a pair we make. Now I’ll have a scar to match all of yours.”
She reached out to trace an old scar along his forearm. It was little more than a pale white line against his tanned skin—a souvenir from his early days of training with Walther. Before her fingers could make contact, his hand shot up and caught hers. “Don’t.”
Riona frowned. “Why not?”
