Page 39 of The Princess's Chosen

"I've got a nasty concoction that might help sober you up," he said.

"Do your worst," I answered with a nod, my eyes trailing to the mirror above the bar that reflected the door.

Unless I felt like cheating the code, which Emory would likely do but wasn't my preferred style, I wouldn't be allowed to use any magic. I might get away with some, simply because he was useless at it and no doubt wouldn't spot any attempts by me.

Or you can let him take the crown, accept a rescue before he slits your throat, and go retreat, Charlotte's voice suggested.

Retreat where?

You know where.

It would hurt my court to leave them in the hands of a man like Emory, but someone would rise up, just as they always did. Emory was too selfish to rule so many for long, and I refused to believe he had the power to keep his boots on their throats. Even from the palace, I might orchestrate…

Except I wasn't guaranteed refuge at the palace. I'd made sure of that.

Otto passed me a steaming mug that smelled sick and bitter, making my mouth rush with saliva. I gagged before even taking the first great gulp and then immediately heaved after I swallowed, adding to the mess in the bucket.

"Oh, youarea sorry sight, aren't you?"

My hand found the long dagger at my side as I finished spitting and then forced the mug up to my lips, chugging three swallows and glaring fire at Otto. He was a sadist, apparently, as this was the foulest thing I'd ever put to my lips, entirely bitter and burning. But he wasloyaltoo, as he'd said, and it wasn't all to do with the coin I paid him. I wiped the back of my mouth with my sleeve and turned to face the pompous peacock in my doorway.

Emory stood wearing his infernal grin, fiery hair tossed to one side, eyes glinting meanly. He had a few bulky figures at his back, and I was glad Griffin had already left for the palace. Emory would cheat, or he would make some kind of spectacle out of this event. He'd brought muscle for a reason.

Scrapper was tucked away with our doctor and a few friends standing guard, and others in my court had moved from their seats, piling together around tables at the edges of the room. No one would rise to defend me. Emory had the right to challenge, and even Otto wouldn't intervene. Some of the familiar faces around the room looked angry on my behalf, wary of Emory, but plenty more looked curious. What would this potential new king change for them? More coin in their pockets?

Yes, if they didn't care where it came from.

"I've been waiting for this day, Martin—" Emory started, stepping forward, stare keen.

I scoffed and mirrored him, yanking an empty table aside to make myself a path. "I'm sorry, were we meant to prepare speeches, or would you rather get to the fight?"

My court laughed, a few cheered with cries of 'yay!' either eager for blood or happy to mock Emory.

His pretty face twisted with annoyance, and we reached for our weapons at the same time.

"No magic," he snarled.

I nodded and then glanced at his brutes. "No extra hands."

Emory grinned like a cat, pushing another table aside, the wood screeching against the floor. "Looking at you, I know I won't need them."

He lunged, snarling, and I grinned as he ran for the attack, dodging around a table and stepping up onto a chair, swiping my blade toward his shoulder just enough to tear his silken sleeve. The chair wobbled beneath me and I landed unsteadily on my feet, jumping backwards as Emory spun to face me again, calming himself.

We took measure of one another for one brief pause. He was an impatient, inelegant fighter, but he was sober and young and I was still unbalanced from drinking, my vision a little blurry, my body wearied from being mistreated for days in a row.

Stall, I reminded myself, painting a grin on my face and sliding a chair between us.

I didn't deserve it if Bryony did send help, but she had an irresistible goodness in her that I'd been craving for weeks now. If I lived through the night, I'd find a way to make my ugly words up to her.

"I'm going to enjoy this," Emory said, tensing and ready to strike.

I believed him.

14

Bryony

Iate aimlessly at dinner, frowning at my plate, trying not to stare down the table to where Sam sat, similarly listless.

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