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Poet’s face cinched. “I’d ask whether it was self-defense,” he prompted, reading my features. “But I have eyes.”
“There was a public execution. As guests, Winter attended, including Queen Silvia and Doria’s heir.”
“The Queens of Winter brought a child to witness a fucking death sentence?”
“No, they did not. They objected, but the prince insisted on being there. Even then, he was known to have a frigid constitution, and they rarely denied him.
“My parents never wanted me present when I was young either. But on this day, our nation required it for our guests’ sake. Although I averted my gaze, the prince did not. And afterward, he requested the organs. Right there, in front of everyone.”
Thinking back, I grimaced. “Mother and Father could not refuse their visitors. So we watched this future monarch, who was not yet a man, dismember the prisoner without batting an eye. The blood streaming from Jeryn’s fingers did not faze him, but the worst part was the convict was still miraculously alive. We hadn’t realized it until he made a noise.
“Yet the prince kept cutting, kept sawing through until the man was truly dead. In the end, I was clinging to Mother and Father while the prince was still clinging to his blade.”
“Fucking hell,” the jester swore.
I recuperated from the story. “I understand Winter’s help will save my life. I do,” I conceded. “But I don’t like this, Poet. We represent everything that man hates. If he would disembowel a condemned noble at that age, what is he capable of as a grown man? And against people he scorns? With my title stripped and my loyalties in question, Jeryn of Winter would no more save me than Rhys would. So what is the prince getting out of helping us?”
“The same thing every ruler gets when trading with another nation,” Poet answered. “Natural resources. It wasn’t difficult to offer him valuable Autumn provisions for Winter’s scientists and physicians, in exchange for his assistance.” Yet the jester’s eyebrows lifted. “At least, that’s what he’s getting on the surface. But aye, we’re on the same page. However beholden I am to him for your survival, I’m guessing this heir will require something more than sourdough grain as compensation when he gets here.”
I nodded. “The question is what.”
“And if we’re willing to relinquish it.” Poet’s lips twitched with mischief and mayhem. “Or if this princess and jester will have to make things difficult for the poor sod.”
“We cannot underestimate him. Summer is aggressive, and Rhys’s temper can make him fight clumsily once we find his weak spot.”
“To that, we shall.”
“But by contrast, the Winter court is unflappable, with the queens being the only exceptions to this rule. If what the continent says about the prince is true, then he’s as cold and vicious as most of his nation. He’ll have no vulnerabilities.”
“Everyone has vulnerabilities,” the jester countered. “So long as they’re human.”
I deliberated. “And if he’s not human?”
Not in the otherworldly sense. Rather, in terms of the prince’s conscience.
Unlike his Queen grandaunts, the Prince of Winter was reputed to be cruel, to a villainous degree. His supreme intelligence and mastery of medicine aside, reports of Jeryn’s loathing for born souls was only matched by the man’s obsession with the brutal ways in which he treated them. Terms such asexperimentationandtorturehad been publicized amid the kingdoms. And while this was hardly surprising given Winter’s culture of science, I could not shake the feeling that Winter’s future king took those practices even further, to a harrowing level.
Seasons forgive me for denouncing someone just as my own nation had denounced me. I took stock in facts rather than premonitions. Yet if the nettling dread inside me came to fruition, Poet and I might be dealing with a Royal far more destructive than Rhys.
Poet coiled the oak braid of my hair around his finger. “If he’s not human, we’ll make him regret that choice.”
I leaned into his touch. “It appears our list of targets, obstacles, and threats is expanding.” With a sigh, I swiped my head from side to side. “Rising public tensions, our attempts to redeem ourselves in the court’s eyes, Summer’s cryptic agenda regarding the castle’s secret passages, preparing for all contingencies during Reaper’s Fest, the assassination attempt on my life, and now this. Winter’s intervention.”
“Rubbish,” Poet murmured against my cheek. “We’ve talked about this more than once. You’re a princess, and I’m a juggler. We have experience in multitasking.”
A short laugh slipped from my mouth. “I wish I had your stamina.”
His expression became severe. “You do.”
The magnitude of his stare drained the unease from me. I trained my eyes on the jester, the sight of him infusing my veins.
Ambition and something fiercer brimmed hotly in his pupils. I knew that look, felt it in the nexus between my thighs. My heart rate doubled as he slowly released the red tendril of hair from around his finger, the motion like an enticement.
“In case you need proof,” Poet whispered, “allow me to show you.”
Guiding me from the chair, he gently hoisted my weight off the ground and strode to the suite’s exit with my limbs hooked over his waist. My eyes widened, yet my tongue failed to protest when Poet crossed from my chambers to his.
The knights standing post gawked for two reasons. One, I was alive. Two, I lacked appropriate attire and was plastered to my lover’s chest. Blessedly, the nightgown hanging from me flared at the waist, so that it cascaded instead of bunching to expose my thighs. Also, my stiffening nipples were concealed by the plate of Poet’s torso.
