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Seated on the other side of the king is an Islorian with olive skin, a trim beard, and long hair pulled back off his face. He wears the leathers of a fighter. Could this be one of the king’s few trusted friends? The man’s gaze drifts about the dining hall while a female beside him—a stunning blond with long, smooth ringlets that cascade down her back—prattles in his ear. Whatever she’s saying, her pinched face smacks of displeasure.
That lord from the day of the assembly, the one who suggested the king could not honor Princess Romeria’s bargains and that I should go back to Freywich, sits beside Lady Saoirse, his goblet held high, silently demanding more wine. With them side by side, I see a familial resemblance. He must be important if he sits next to her. Maybe her father?
I need to pay more attention to the household gossip. I am clueless in here.
And this was a terrible mistake. Though I served Lord Danthrin and his guests plenty over the years, this is the castle. There are routines and protocols, and my place is in the kitchen, not scuttling into the dining hall with fritters and a harebrained scheme of slipping a note into the king’s pocket. I shouldn’t have come.
“Gracen.” Fikar slows and grins, at the fritters or me, I can’t tell. The lanky servant’s a terrible flirt. “What are you doing in here?”
“Fikar!” I hold up the platter. “Can you take this to the head table for me?”
“Uh … Sure. Let me just …” He glances around, searching for a place to cast the empty silver wine pitcher in his grasp. There isn’t anywhere. “Give me a minute to refill this, and then I’ll be back.” He’s gone before I can stop him, leaving me standing there, raucous laughter and conversations all around me.
“My, haven’t you grown comfortable in Cirilea’s castle.”
I nearly lose my grip of the silver tray at Lord Danthrin’s crisp voice in my ear. Fates, of course he’s here. I’d like to say I thought he’d left for Freywich to be with his pregnant wife and their charred orchard, but I simply didn’t think, too focused on the king and this poison.
And now I feel cornered in the middle of a room. “They’ve welcomed me.” I clear the shake from my voice as I edge away from his looming presence before daring to meet his gaze. He’s as polished as usual but the veneer doesn’t hide the stains beneath, at least not for me. “Joining the household has been a blessing for us.”
He steps closer, erasing the space I created. “You have a glow about you.” His cold eyes scour my face before sliding down my neckline, over my swollen chest, aching with the need to nurse.
My skin crawls, remembering all the times he’s looked at me like that, and what it always led to. “It’s called being fed.” I don’t know where these brazen words come from. I never had the nerve to speak to him with such acrimony before.
Rage flashes across his face, the likes of which I’ve seen many times, though I’ve never rightfully deserved. I brace myself for a backhand across my cheek, dreading the aftermath of the attention it will bring as I’m sprawled out on the floor, my afternoon’s work edible for no one but the swine anymore.
But Lord Danthrin seems to catch himself, stealing a glance toward the head table.
I follow suit, and my breath hitches.
The king watches us, his arms propped at the elbows, his lips pressed against his folded hands, hiding his expression from view.
“You are fortunate to have won His Highness’s favor, though I am not surprised. You do have more compelling skills than one might expect, buried beneath the flour and sugar and lard.”
I push away the images he’s conjuring in my mind, the tears threatening to spill along with the wave of revulsion.
“How are my children doing?” Lord Danthrin smooths his hand over his lapel. “Are you taking good care of them for me?”
I grit my teeth. “They are not your children.” Where is Fikar? He should be back by now. I glance frantically around, my focus landing on the king again.
He’s leaning over to say something in the male’s ear sitting next to him.
“Come now, Gracen.” Danthrin’s responding smile is vicious as he pulls my attention back. “Every one of those little bastards that sucks on your teats is breathing because of me. Because I found a male mortal willing to spill his seed into you until you succeeded in bearing fruit. They would not exist otherwise. And it cost me dearly.”
“I never asked for any of it.” If he paid anything, it was to those mortal men’s keepers, and the mortal men he brought forth weren’t particularly kind or gentle about their tasks.
