Page 56 of House of Ydril

“Yes, they are,” I cut him off, slightly more forcefully this time, “I’ll give you that.” I lean a little forward, making the Count lean back. “But is their discontent with these things entirely unfounded?”

There’s a moment of silence before the Count blinks at me and mutters, “No, I guess it’s not.”

“Shouldn’t we give them what they want then, nowthat our primary goal is keeping the peace?”

The Count nods. “Yes, Your Majesty. I understand and I will prepare a statement accordingly.”

Oh how I hate the guy and all his spinelessness, stupidity and carelessness. He moves to get up, but I raise my hand and he slumps back into his seat. I appear next to him, leaning forward as I say, “Also, it wasthreeScions and not two that the man killed.”

I can tell that he’s fighting to stay still, his eyes failing to look straight into mine. “If you wish to keep your position as Ambassador, youwillhave your facts straight atalltimes, understood?”

After my meeting with the Count, I have three more lined up so it’s after two o’clock that I finally get the chance to take a walk and clear my head a little.

Of course, as soon as I start roaming the castle garden by myself, it crosses my mind. The option to do it again, just like I did before, twice since the incident. The option to sniff her out and accidentally find myself walking past her. For whatever mysterious reason, she wants to join the Vipers, and they’ve told her exactly what she needs to do to achieve that. She needs to go throughme.

When she does, I think to myself as I focus on sniffing out her blood, that annoyingly intoxicating blend of soft and sharp notes… When she does, I’ll find out exactly what she’s up to. How do I know she will? By the apparent struggle I saw in her eyes when I appeared in her sight. Yes, she threw daggers at me both times. And yes, she stomped away as quickly as possible. But she also hesitated, just a little. And a little more the second time around.

I’m already on my way to the Dame Gothel statue, where her scent seems to be strongest. And the closer I get, the more those images flood my mind. The images of her as she spun around the podium with me. I strain to recall, in as much detail as possible, the way it felt to have her so close, the curve of her waist, her skin, those eyes. My heart pounds in anticipation of catching another glimpse of her.

It’s only when I get close to the statue that I ask myself what the fuck I’m doing. Yes, the longing to see her makes me want to jump out of my skin. But that just makes for a very good reason not to do it. I’ve been under this girl’s spell for too long, I remind myself, ever since I first laid eyes on her before the opening ceremony. I simply can’t let her do this to me anymore.

So I turn on my heel and I walk away. I cut my lunch short, which gives me time to catch up on some classwork before a series of afternoon meetings and my last training session of the day.

But by the time I’m finished with all the endless obligations, watching news in my living room, I’m not any less restless than I was when I decided not to ‘bump’ into her. I soon find myself reliving, once again, the incident at the Ball. My body vibrates with rage as I imagine the look in her eyes. Thedisgustedlook in her eyes before she threw me against the wall.

But it’s all fine, I think to myself as I flick through the channels, because when she finally comes begging for my help, I won’t just find out what the hell she’s up to. I’ll stare straight into those eyes and I’ll turn her down cold, I will.

It makes me feel a little better, imagining the look in her eyes whenthathappens. When she realizes what refusing me actually means.

I get so lost in those ruminations that I imagine I’m smelling her again.

Only, a moment later, it turns out it’s not my imagination after all. I jump up on my feet, the scent of her blood getting stronger with each second. She’s close and getting closer, my heart responding with the usual tiresome pounding.

I hear a knock on my front door and the sound of her voice drifts up to me. She’s talking with Max. She’s here looking for me and I hear him telling her I’m not to be disturbed.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m at the door leading onto the foyer. I catch her just as she turns to leave. “It’s alright, Max,” I drawl in an effort to keep my voice from betraying my feelings, “I’ll see her.”

I notice the look she throws me when she turns to face me. I motion for her to follow me into the living room.

“No,” she snaps. “I’d rather not be alone with you.”

It makes me freeze for a second. Hot rage flooding my body, I squeeze out, “I don’t give a fuck. I won’t be talking to you in the foyer.”

With that, I turn on my heel and dart back into the living room, leaving the door open and trying to keep my body from shaking.

After a moment of hesitation, I hear her come in and her footsteps draw close. The fact of her actually being here makes me lightheaded so I busy myself with pouring vintage scotch into two crystal glasses from the bar. I need a second to collect myself before I can face her. Especially since I sense she’s pissed about me not addressing her directly, or pissed at me in general, and that fire of hers does things to me that are sometimes hard to control.

I finally turn to her, holding out a glass of scotch as I motion for her to take a seat.

She just shakes her head.

“Suit yourself,” I say flatly. I put her glass away and take my own with me as I throw myself on the sofa, not too far from where she remains standing. I don’t say anything. I’m waiting for her to talk and I’m going to relish it, I think as I lean back, opening my legs and throwing an arm around the backrest with the glass still in my hand.

“I’m going to cut to the chase,” she starts, sounding as if she has to force each word out individually. “I want to join the Vipers, but apparently, I can’t do that withoutyougiving me the green light.”

With that, as if she knows I’ll say no, she folds her arms in defiance and a wave of heat floods me from head to toe. I fight not to let my eyes drag over her body.

“Hmmm,” I say and I down the entire glass of scotch. The liquid burns my throat and I tip my head back a little, determined to look at her face and her face only. I lean forward, put the glass down and shake my head, pretending to be thinking. Should I drag it out or would it be sweeter to be blunt?

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