Page 88 of Heir to His Court

“He believes you are. My Lord has you wrapped in so many layers of wool that it's revolting. He has entirely forgotten how many of our warriors you destroyed.” For the first time during the conversation, his usual malice shaded his gold-brown eyes. “I have not.”

We exchanged smiles full of accord and teeth.

Baroun walked to the door, but paused before opening it. “If either of those answers changes, cousin, and you desire assistance, you may summon me.”

* * *

Day five, the Prince condescended to the politely worded requests from Faronne and allied Houses for proof of life.

I read one, snorted, and crumpled it. It had been instructional to read how they couched sentences that diplomatically expressed concern I had literally been fucked to death. I felt sorry for the clerk who’d had to draft that letter.

My bonded extended invitations for dinner at Court, the first since that disastrous ball.

I didn't like the idea at all. When Raniel exerted dominance over his other aspects, he was, admittedly, calmer. But I suspected that calm was still mostly a façade. I hoped the idiots who composed the evening's guests weren’t fooled.

I’d sent word to Faronne admonishing everyone to be on their best behavior and treat the Prince like an explosion waiting to happen, and me like the unstable fuze. They would duly inform those we preferred remain among the living.

Unfortunately, I doubted Montague required any such warning. They already knew their House Lord well.

Raniel kissed my shoulder. “Let me dress you.”

I frowned and turned. We were in his suite preparing for the evening. Well, he was preparing, I was whining and attempting to distract him with sex so he would send everyone home. For once, he was not having it.

“I’m not a doll.”

His eyes brightened on the word doll—but he correctly interpreted my expression. “Of course not, my halfling,” he demurred in his smooth Court voice, a hint of Renaud in its depths. “You are my consort.” He veiled his eyes.

“Then why do you want to dress me?”

He trailed a fingertip down my arm. “Because it gives me pleasure.”

After a moment, I shrugged, exerting control over my bottom lip. Realms, I hated how Raniel plus sex reduced me to girlishness. I was hoping it was just the effect of the bonding and I’d return to my usual suitably snarling self soon.

“I don’t care what I wear.”

A poor choice of words—I vaguely worried whatRenaudwould do if I gave him such leave—but I wouldn’t take them back. I didn’t care in a certain sense, and I trusted Raniel wouldn’t make me look ridiculous.

No. . .he made me look like what I was.

A captured warrior with blood on her hands.

The fulminating, uncuffed Lady of the Lake.

A halfling on the verge of submitting to every depravity.

We walked to the forest courtyard together, the swish of silver silk on my legs. The gown was demure and simultaneously obscene, of silks and lace and strands of silver links imitating chainmail.

The neckline was high, made entirely of the silver links and molded to my free swinging breasts, my back bare to right above the curve of my buttocks. He’d refused me undergarments, and the silk fell into every valley, traced every curve. The slits in the skirt skimmed all the way up to my hipbone, high enough that if I sat on his lap, then under the table he could slide his hand beneath the slit and. . .

My breath hitched.

Raniel glanced down at me, distant and regal, every inch an Old Prince in ancestral robes of the deepest blue edged in silver, a scarlet sash wrapped around his narrow waist.

Ilooked savage and fuckable, he looked elegant and untouchable. Males males males.

“What are you thinking of, my halfling?”

I said nothing, but he lowered his mouth to my ear. “I scent the wetness between your thighs. Shall I make you come in front of our Court? Lick your juices from my fingers while they gaze upon us with all due envy? Bare your breasts and open your thighs and demand each of your enemies pay tribute with tongue and teeth?”

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