Page 25 of Blood On His Lips

Renaud was in her debt. He would repay it, and when she understood, she would thank him.

But first—

He walked out of the room, a familiar awareness sweeping over him.

His destiny had arrived, and she was angry, the heat of her emotions a soothing balm.

Renaud smiled.

ChapterEight

We answereda Court summons from the Prince two days after the attack. Two days after that feminine force invaded my mind and tried to tear me apart, and my Vow offered a gentle reminder of the consequences for breaking a covenant.

It had taken some verbal tap dancing to get around my family, and only then because I’d thrown myself under the bus. They thought I’d experienced a particularly harsh flashback, and Aunt Fatma made me promise to go see my therapist soon or she would inform Baba. I’d only crawled out of bed this morning.

I was in a bad mood.

A handful of courtiers lingered in the open-air throne room, White Guard posted at each swirling pillar, eyes cold and watchful from behind the shroud of their concealing scarves. I watched them as they watched me, seeking a pair of sea colored eyes. If only it were that easy.

A small bird flew by overhead, chirping, and settled on one of the tall ledges. Its companion joined a moment later, their song the only break in the silence—not the rustle of cloth, or any of the other small sounds that should accompany a gathering of people.

We walked to the throne, Baba on my right side, Édouard the left. Numair, Juliette, and my father's guard paced behind us. Renaud stood on the third step of the dais, gazing down at three bound and slumped figures.

I now had no doubts regarding the Prince’s penchant for melodrama. We could have done this in an office.

He wore deep blue robes edged in silver, the blue close enough to the shade of my House to imply a statement—I was torn between indignation and a warm, melting sweetness. Wearing my color with his own as a secondary was a gesture of respect, subordination even, and he offered it publicly.

This crafty motherfu. . .but he was a skilled hunter.

His hair flowed down his back in a curtain of black, his brow bound by a thin silver circlet. He lifted his head, and sapphire eyes stared at me. I had never seen the blue so dark, and I wondered what it meant.

We halted at the appropriate distance and bowed. Even if I wasn't already wary from the scene in front of me, I would have instantly gone on guard. This untouchable Prince was the Old One, not the Renaud who revealed himself to me in private.

For once, I pulled on every iota of etiquette I'd mastered, glad I’d chosen to don my own Court livery, the cobalt-and-vermillion robes draping my body, my hair loose down my back, my gold cuffs of Kuthliele lineage on my wrists.

Why had he decided to make a public spectacle of this? He could have dumped them on my front porch and walked away. Every reason I could think of left me cold.

He extended a graceful hand, and waited.

I stared for a second longer than was obedient, but no flicker of expression crossed his face. I approached, trying to conceal my hesitation, to avoid offering him insult.

I slid my hand into his, and he drew me up a step. Just the one, enough to elevate me above the others in the throne room.

“These three are among those who sought to harm the one I declared under my protection,” the Prince said. His fingers tightened around mine, the old realm intonation in his voice strengthened. “What useful information they possessed—and it was little—has been extracted. They are now yours.”

It had been two days since he left me. From the condition of the warriors at my feet, two days spent extracting information. They were pale, their eyes glazed. They wore clean clothing, however, as if someone had taken the trouble to make them presentable though they were near death. That chilled me more than anything else.

They looked up at me, eyes glazed but absent fear. Pride in the slump of their shoulders. They wouldn't beg. They probably wouldn't speak.

“What do you expect me to do with them?” I asked finally. More to give myself time to think. I didn't care if anyone thought I was an idiot. What I was expected to do with them was obvious.

A flicker of movement caught my attention, and Baroun Montague walked forward, dressed all in gray, his thick, wavy hair falling around his shoulders, his skin a shade paler than its usual desert bronze hue.

“They attempted to take your life and the lives of your retainers,” Baroun said. “What do you think you should do with them, girl?”

I wrinkled my nose as if someone had just dumped a vat of rotten trash at my feet—but the tightness at the corners of his eyes concerned and warned me. He didn’t look well.

I frowned at him. Was he ill? “The day I take advice from you is the day I slit my own throat.”

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