Page 2 of Blood On His Lips

Now I must contend with asecondgodscursed Vow, which the Prince had forced out of me in some misguided bid to protect me from my little self. I curled my lip in a silent sneer.

I couldn’t tell them about the second Vow. I hadn’t told them about the first. They would lose their minds. They would go after the Prince, and then we would all die. Tolerance only stretched so far.

In fact, it often felt like I was facing two different personalities when interacting with the Prince. One courtly, elegant, secure enough in his power to be amused by my strained manners, and the other. . .not so much. The issue was I couldn’t figure out which personality was the one courting me. That also seemed to vary according to his mood.

Sucha moody bastard.

In my mind, Darkan approximated a snort. He’d been silent during the date. He never offered his advice or commentary when Renaud was physically present. I kept meaning to ask him why.

Can he be trusted?I asked, the question not entirely serious. Of course the Prince couldn’t be trusted.

Trust,was the chilly reply,is premature. Focus on understanding his goals, and the strategies he might employ to achieve them, and how those goals may intersect with your own. You may make him an ally, or an adversary. I do not suggest the latter.

You don’t seem very upset. Hebitme.

Had he put you over his knee and spanked you as you so richly deserve, I would have been even less upset.

I behaved.

In your fashion.

I drew no weapons.

Silence.

What could Darkan say, after all? It was true, and for me, not drawing weapons was the height of good behavior.

I would have to work on that, but to be fair the majority of my life had been spent away from Court and High Fae, as far away as possible. Low Fae didn’t take themselves quite so seriously, so minor offenses didn’t immediately lead to duel or death. Excepting the blood feud between Montague and Faronne, of course.

But that was different, and still didn’t requiremanners.That was what my father was for.

Numair ushered me into our unmarked carriage, slammed the door closed after Juliette entered, and the wheels lurched into motion.

Our District wasn’t far in terms of actual mileage, but a horse drawn carriage could only carry us so fast through the city. If it had been New York, we could have hopped in a cab and been home in forty-five minutes.

But no. . .Everenne, one of the few Fae ruled enclaves on the North American continent, had to exist in an eight-hundred-year old time bubble. Because bending enough to admit human technology had its uses would be tantamount to agreeing mortals were not, in truth, vermin.

The combination solar and steam power that joined the use of magic to undergird our infrastructure was a highly grudging compromise. Crossing the realms centuries ago had ripped away much of our original power, and the city founders had had no choice but to adopt and adaptsomehuman innovations over the years.

Other than that, the most human culture we’d allowed in was a bastard mix of two of their major languages, French and English, and only because communication with the human cities outside of our walls was required.

We’d developed a dialect of our original language over the years which was now unique to Everenne, and if House Faronne as it was currently constituted had its way, in the next several decades my father’s birth tongue would also become a part of the lexicon.

He was the public face of House Faronne, my mother’s widower, and a much needed face since he was the only one among us with the ability to exercise any diplomacy.

I had no intention of further embroiling myself in the affairs of the Low or High Fae Courts, however, so let him handle politics all he wanted. When this damn treaty was finally signed and the feud officially over, I would turn my attention to ramming Wi-Fi and cell towers down the city’s throat and managing my string of cafés.

“I can’t tell if you want to throw up or stab someone,” Numair said, interrupting my brooding internal diatribe.

“Both,” Juliette muttered, her sidelong glance a look only another female would understand. We stared at each other, three options lingering between us.

Throw up. Gross and weak, but understandable.

Stab someone? Much more satisfying, but my therapist was diligently working with me on alternative—boring—coping mechanisms.

Turn around and return willingly to the warrior Prince I’d barely escaped and beg for him to fulfill all of his unspoken promises?

That was a dark fantasy I needed to crush.

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