Page 78 of Enslaved

“And why not? You’ve never been able to stop me from having anything I wanted. Your crown, your kingdom, your father’s regard. And now”—his smile is beautiful as the cruel winter dawn—“yourwife.”

His what?

My arms go slack. I drop my hold on the Prince, back away, mouth open. What did Ivor just say? I must have misheard. In my frenzy, in my terror. Or there’s been some misunderstanding or . . . or . . .

The Prince braces again, even now prepared to send his blast hurtling across the chamber. The pent-up force inside him will rip him in two. Nothing else matters. Only him. Only saving him, preventing him from destroying himself. So I do the only thing I can think to do.

I hasten across the room and stand in front of Ivor. My back to him, my gaze on the Prince. A living shield.

The Prince’s eyes fix on mine. “Stand aside.”

I shake my head.

“Stand aside, Darling. Now.”

I lift my chin, drag a ragged breath into my lungs. My will rises to meet his, my feeble human soul—such a straggling, pathetic thing before his mighty fae wrath. But I won’t back down.

At last, he lowers his hands, hissing a curse between his teeth. For a moment he stands there, silent and still. Then he drags a terrible breath into his lungs. “Very well, Ivor,” he says in a voice of stone. “You’ve forced my hand. If it’s all or nothing you want, that’s what you shall have.”

Before I can think or react, he whips a knife from his belt, cuts his own hand, staining the blade with purple blood. Then he flings the knife. It whistles past my skirts, sticks to the ground just at Ivor’s feet.

Ivor’s gaze fixes on that quivering hilt for the space of five breaths. Then slowly he looks up. His golden complexion turns pale.

The Prince smiles. It’s such a charming, deadly expression. “By the blood in my veins,” he says softly. “In the name of my father and his father and his father before him, I, Castien Lodírith, Prince of Vespre, demand the Rite of the Thorn.”

All the festivities have come to a screeching halt, the betrothal forgotten. Instead Ivor’s chambers are a flurry of excitement as his attendants, Obligates, and members of his doting entourage prepare for the battle about to take place. It’s like a storm has burst inside the palace. I can hear it rumbling and growling, echoing through the halls and across all Aurelis.

The Prince has come . . .

He’s challenged Lord Ivor . . .

The Rite of the Thorn . . .

The battle for the crown . . .

No one takes any notice of me. As one of Ivor’s Obligates, I’m put to work of course—tucked away in a corner of his chambers, stitching the hem of a fine cloak he is to wear when visiting Tanatar’s Chapel to be blessed by the God of War and Battle. With every stitch, I offer up desperate prayers . . . only not for the one who will be wearing this cloak.

Danny is gone. I don’t know where or how he was taken away. When I fled Ivor’s bedchamber, the room beyond was empty. Is he in dreadful pain? Is someone treating his wounds? The questions ring dully in the back of my head, but I can scarcely pay them any heed.

Most of my mind is taken up with that image of the Prince. Bursting through the skylight. Hurling Ivor across the room. Drawing on his cursed magic to blast my enslaver—and himself—into oblivion.

“Your wife.”

Why had Ivor said that? What could he have possibly meant?

My stitches run wild. I’m obliged to pull them out, try again, refocus my attention on that simple hem.

Nearby several Obligates whisper together in low, conspiratorial tones. “I never believed it would come to this,” one of them says. “Not with the Prince crippled under that curse as he is.”

“But really,” says another, “it was inevitable, wasn’t it? He couldn’t very well stand by and let some other heir be named. He must fight for his rights as Lodírhal’s son.”

“The Prince never did seem to care much for Aurelis or the throne,” the first voice protests. “He’s too much like his mother. Too human.”

“I heard it was a woman who drove him to it,” a third puts in slyly.

“A woman? Estrilde?”

“No! I heard it was Ilusine. She was seen dancing with Ivor at the ball. They say the Prince went mad with jealousy.”

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