Page 4 of The Heir's Bargain

When he reached her, Fynn tried to put his hand on her back, but she swatted it away, mumbling something unintelligible.

Unwelcome regret rose in my stomach and up my throat. I swallowed it as Fynn's wet handprint faded from Rosalina's silk dress.

It didn't matter if I had liked Fynn since we were little kids who chased after one another through the castle halls. The two of us were never meant to be anything more than what we already were. It didn't matter that my breathing quickened in his presence or that my heart quaked in my chest or that my fingers buzzed with a nervous energy every time he looked at me.

None of that mattered when our fates were clearly misaligned.

So, I dove and swam to the bottom of the lake, letting the cold kiss of the water freeze the thoughts and drown them.

Chapter 1

FYNN

My mother tapped her thin, delicate fingers along the stiff fabric of the couch, her pale pink lips curving down, not quite sure what to do with me. Because today, I became Fynneares Andros Nadarean, prince and heir to the Pontian throne, and I was completely and utterly hung over.

When my brother and I returned home last night and retreated to our rooms, dawn had come quickly. After having gotten only three hours of sleep before my attendant Jorian woke me for breakfast, I had shouted harmless obscenities at him to get him to go away. Jorian, however, hadn’t relented. Apparently, future kings didn't lie in bed all morning. If I did, that would, of course, make me appear "indolent and irresponsible to my future subjects."

How having breakfast with my nagging mother meant the opposite, I wasn't quite sure.

Nevertheless, I was forced to dine with her while Terin was absent, no doubt flying through dreams while trying to find his own.

Even in the early morning hours, my mother was ever the queen. Not a strand of hair stuck out from her taut bun; not a single dusting of lint lingered on her lavender dress. Everything was in its place. Pristine, polished, flawless.

Her prim posture, however, couldn't fool me.

The corner of my lip twitched, and I reached for the invisible string that only I could see and tugged.

"By the gods!" I shouted, squeezing my head between my palms as pain seared through my brain.

My mother scoffed and set the porcelain teacup on its saucer. "Are you still so drunk that you are foolish enough to try and weasel your way into my mind, Fynneares? Didn't you learn your lesson when you were a boy?"

"Apparently not," I mumbled, snatching a pastry from the plate.

Maybe I was still drunk after last night's card game with Terin and the Wilton brothers.

However, I would never admit that to my mother.

As a child and teenager, I had tried to slip into her mind one too many times not to know the repercussions now. Her mental shields were well established, forged in steel, and more impenetrable than our kingdom, surrounded by dangerous cliffs and protected by the kraken. Yet, it had never prevented me from trying.

In my twenty-three years, I had only been successful once at slipping through my mother's shields.

I was five years old and had begun to discover my ability to read thoughts. At the time, hearing the thoughts of the grumbling staff and the other surrounding adults was as if a new world had revealed itself. I had learned then that adults were not as open as children. Where children often spoke their minds without concern for any repercussions, adults were closed lip about anything and everything. This only made me more curious. Discovering their secrets was like stealing a sweet treat from the kitchen behind the chef's back.

Despite being told numerous times to tell my parents about anything odd I experienced, I kept my ability a secret for a couple of days, too set on learning everyone's secrets.

When I had found my mother's thoughts locked away with dozens of bolts and chains lining the walls of her mental fortress, I was determined to break through it.

I had been trying to pry into my mother's mind for days with no luck when my family and I had ventured to the old summer home in northern Pontia. There, I had finally succeeded.

In the safety of her home, with only her children and husband around, her shields were down. An onslaught of thoughts drenched in worry, concern, and responsibility poured out of her mind. The kingdom's secrets, the growing rebellions in the southern kingdoms, the weight of the crown, the fear of the future—it all came rushing out before I could close the door.

The following day, I woke up with a splitting migraine and no recollection of how I got to my bed.

I should have learned my lesson then, but I didn't. I kept trying.

I should have considered it a blessing that my mother’s mind wasn't as wide open as so many others around me. It was hard enough to bear the thoughts of everyone else. I didn't need my mother's worries pressing down on my shoulders, too. Yet I never learned my lesson, no matter how many times I was knocked out cold.

Maybe it was because I was a glutton for punishment. Or maybe it was because I wanted to know she was hurting as much as I was behind that small smile.

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