Page 42 of Heir to His Court

My father never made threats.Never.He’d never wielded my mother as a weapon against the Prince. I felt Renaud’s flinch as an imperceptible tension in his shoulders.

He swiveled just enough to observe Baba’s face, taking me with him. “I. . .accept your chastisement, bonded’s father.”

“I am weary,” Renaud said quietly. “Likewise, my bonded. Whatever requests Faronne has already submitted will be ratified. Montague, do you have everything you want?”

“We do, cousin.”

“Labornne?”

A pause. “We are willing to route further negotiations to the Low Courts,” Keysia said. “Labornne need not trouble the Prince further.”

Bold. I almost smiled.

One by one each House acquiesced. The current draft of the treaty was complete enough, anyway. We’d only been haggling over details at Renaud’s pleasure. Which, demonstrably, had just withered.

“We will seal our agreement in blood,” the Prince said. “If you will indulge me, I have one more request, of a personal nature.”

Something in his voice. . .

I looked up at him.Darkan?

“I desire to know who killed my son. Bring me Embriel’s murderer, and then the city will have peace. Hide them from me, and the city will drown in blood.”

As my family and I return home, the silence feels like the wait before an execution.

ChapterThirteen

AGE FOURTEEN

I'm pulling my hair back into a braid when the dressing room door opens then shuts behind me.

I don't immediately turn because no one but Juliette or Numair bothers me here. Someone tried to pull a prank on me once in the bathhouse, though it wasn't clear if it was a prank, or an assassination attempt in disguise. Danon had been pissed, and responded predictably, and since then I'm left alone in this small corner dressing room.

I bend over to scoop up my knives then turn and realize instantly I've made a mistake.

Assuming I was safe. A scion of Kuthliele isneversafe. There is no safety anywhere.

I do not retreat; I will not have him think I fear him. I also fail to call Raniel. I'm still angry with him, and I don't need his damn help to deal with his son. I stare into cerulean eyes as clear as the sea on a summer day. The kind of clarity of someone who sleeps just fine at night, unlike me.

It sours my mood. I’m fourteen, fifteen soon, and my soul is already darker than his.

Those disturbing eyes are set in a lightly tanned, handsome face surrounded by shoulder length hair the color of antique gold. He's waiting patiently, hands tucked into khaki slacks, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows. He looks like someone’s highly fuckable teacher. Which makes sense, since he is.

“Why have you approached, Princeling?” I don't call him High Lord, or use the word for Heir which indicates royalty, even though he's entitled to be addressed so.

“I intend you no harm, or discomfort,” Embriel says. His voice is kind, the echo of a thousand really boring lectures.

“Amusing.” I cross my arms over my chest, and deliberately slide into American English. I need the practice and it has the benefit of potentially annoying him. “This is a weird place to ambush me if you aren’t up to mischief.”

He switches flawlessly from his academic inflected Everennesse to English. “I wanted to talk to you alone, little sister.”

“Don't call me that,” I snap.

He purses his lips, amusement in his eyes. Sometimes it's hard for me to believe he's Raniel's son. But then he's thousands of thousands of years younger. I never met Raniel's ex-wife. Maybe Embriel looks like his mother.

“You’re my father’s future bonded, so I suppose I could call you stepmother.”

“Donotmake me gag.”

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