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“Why do you hate him so much?”
“I have my reasons. They don’t concern you.”
Desfan stepped closer, aware of how intensely Karim watched them. “I don’t trust you, Liam. You’re only here because I need you.”
The prince met his gaze. “You know, we have more in common than you realize.”
Desfan scoffed. “We’re nothing alike.”
“Wrong.” Liam’s head tipped to the side as he studied him. “Both of us were born with royal blood, which brought obligations we didn’t want. I was never destined to sit on a throne, of course—but you didn’t ever really want yours. We’re both men of action; we can’t stand by while there’s something to be done. We both went through a depressive stage, in which we tried to feel alive in any way we could—risk, pain, adrenaline . . . at least if we could feel that, it meant we were still breathing. And we both turned to olcain to dull that part of us that seemed to never stop screaming.”
Desfan stared. He didn’t know what to say to any of that, because . . . it was all true. He also didn’t know why Liam was revealing so much of himself; his words didn’t feel like a lie.
Liam closed his eyes briefly. “Regardless of our complicated circumstances, I don’t want your fate to be mine, Desfan. I don’t want you to lose what I lost.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, suddenly cautious.
Liam’s voice lowered. “Your feelings for Imara are exceedingly obvious.”
Desfan’s spine stiffened. He ignored the bait in Liam’s words. “You can say whatever you’d like to, but you’re not here for altruistic purposes.”
“True,” Liam allowed. “I’m here for vengeance. But in getting what I want, I’m giving you what you want—Imara, safe from Skyer.”
Before Desfan could answer, the double doors across the warehouse pushed in.
Fang straightened. The man was unusually pale, and Desfan could feel his fear as he faced the doors. Desfan and Karim moved to stand beside him, Liam and his guard falling into line as well.
Zennorians trooped in, one dressed more elegantly than the rest. Instantly, Desfan knew that was Sahvi.
The man looked to be in his fifties. He walked with the confident swagger of a man used to getting his way. He had a short dark beard, though streaks of white stood out starkly against his dark skin. Jeweled rings glittered on his fingers as he gestured for his guards to fan out behind him.
He had brought thirty men, easily outnumbering them.
Desfan breathed in slowly, embracing the flutter of nervous energy in his gut. It would keep him loose and able to react quickly.
“Fang!” Sahvi called out, his eyes firmly on the Mortisian criminal. “I trust you have made all the necessary preparations. I tire of this kingdom and long to go home.”
Fang’s hands twitched at his sides, but he didn’t reach for his blades. “All preparations have been made. The ship is ready in the harbor.”
“Good. You will just need to load the last of my things.” Sahvi gestured toward the door. “I left it all out there. Send your men to pack it on the ship.”
Fang cast a quick look at Desfan, who dipped his chin.
They had no choice but to comply, even if it meant dismissing a few of their guards.
Fang ordered two of his men away. They readily complied, closing the large warehouse doors behind them.
In the silence, Fang spoke stiffly. “My daughter?”
Sahvi waved a negligent hand. “She is safe. So is her husband and their brat.”
Fang’s hands fisted. “I want to see them before we leave.”
“That won’t be possible,” Sahvi said. “You’ll see them when you return.”
Desfan smothered a curse. Not knowing where Fang’s family was—if they were even still alive—made all of this more dangerous. Especially if Fang didn’t keep his focus on taking down Sahvi.
The Zennorian criminal glanced around the room. As Sahvi’s eyes skirted over Fang’s men, Desfan lowered his eyes to avoid any chance of recognition. “Where is the olcain I left in your care?” Sahvi asked.
