Page 79 of Enslaved

“It must be her. Everyone knows they’re Fatebound, but for some reason the Prince won’t seal the match.”

“Afraid to be tied down like his father, perhaps. Seeing her with Ivor may have been just the thing to push him over the edge—”

I can’t take any more of this.

Rising abruptly, I drop cloak, needle, thread, and step away. No sudden jerk of pain stops me; Ivor himself did not set me the task, and I am momentarily free in my movements. So I slip from the workroom, slip from the apartment into the outer passage. Any moment I expect my Obligation to pull me up short. It never does. With each step I take, my courage rises. Soon I’ve gathered up my skirt and run through the palace, all the way to the queen’s suite.

There’s quite a crowd gathered outside the door. All the various people of the Dawn Court, eager to curry favor with the Prince.After all it’s possible he could win the day and become the new king-apparent. They’d best be careful, of course—cursed as the Prince is, the odds are definitely in Ivor’s favor to win. But Ivor is not without his enemies, nor the Prince without his supporters.

The sight of that crowd does nothing to raise my spirits, however. They’re a flock of vultures, eager to pick at whatever bones may come their way.

Ducking, weaving, elbowing, pushing, I make my way through the thick of them until I stand before the door. I’m small enough, insignificant enough, no one pays me any heed. Only when I reach the door itself and knock does anyone bother speaking to me: “He’s not opening up. No one’s been permitted inside yet, not even the priests come to help him prepare his soul.”

I shiver, casting the speaker a sidelong glance. It’s a tall, elfkin man, one I do not recognize. His face is not kindly exactly, but neither is it cruel. Of course, it might just be the glamours he wears, making him seem less threatening.

I don’t bother to answer but face the door again. Closing my eyes, I lean my forehead against the panels. “Castien,” I murmur. “Can you hear me?”

Then, low enough I’m sure no one else will hear, I breathe another name . . . a mere whisper of sound . . .

The door opens so abruptly, I stagger to catch my balance. The crowd gasps, draws back several paces. All of them stare. At the Prince.

He’s shirtless. Naturally. Not just shirtless; he wears nothing but a towel wrapped low around his waist. Water drips down his neck, his torso, pools at his feet. He surveys the gathering. One sardonic brow rises slowly up his forehead. “Come to enjoy the pre-show performance?”

Before anyone dares answer, he catches my arm and draws me into the room, shutting the door firmly behind me and dropping the bolt. Only then does he turn to face me. “I knew giving you that name would cause trouble.”

My face heats. I turn away, but my eyes keep bouncing back to him, drawn by that image of muscular strength and beauty. He must be wearing a glamour. Surely.

“Don’t worry, Darling,” he sighs, sauntering off to the washroom. “Spare me your maidenly blushes! I’ll make myself decent, have no fear.”

He vanishes through the doorway, leaving me alone in the room. The very room in which, months ago, I’d dragged his fainting carcass across the floor and propped him up on pillows pulled from the lounger. The space feels different now. He’s had a desk brought in and placed near one great window.

Something about that desk draws me. I step closer, my curiosity idle at first. But my eyes widen as I take in the piles of papers and ink strewn there. They’re spells. I pick up one, then another, then a third. Written spells—human magic. My hands begin to tremble. I want to tear these pages into pieces, fling them out the window. There’s so much potential magic gathered here, just waiting to be unleashed. Human magic. The Prince’s magic. Magic that, once used, would mean his death.

“You know what they say about those who snoop don’t you?”

I whirl, clutching those pages to my chest, and face the Prince. He stands in the washroom doorway, clad now in a silky dressing gown. He leans one elbow on the frame as he surveys me with all the insouciant ease of a housecat. One would never guess at the violence I’d glimpsed burning in his eyes such a short while ago.

“I’m not entirely certain how the rest of the maxim goes,” he continues, rubbing his upper lip idly. “Something about snoopers snooping out their own demise. I’m sure the original puts it far better.”

“What are you doing?”

“Misremembering popular aphorisms, apparently.”

I shake my head, holding up the spells. “These. What are you doing with these?”

He tips his brow at me. “What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re preparing to kill Ivor. At whatever cost to yourself.”

He pushes away from the doorframe and glides into the room, hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. His hair is still damp, swept back from his forehead, but leaving wet patches across his shoulders. He’s so beautiful it hurts. It hurts far more to see his face so barricaded.

He circles to the far side of the desk and stands there, eyeing me coldly. “Ivor’s had it coming,” he says at last. “For a long, long while.”

“Oh, Prince—”

He holds up one hand. “Under the circumstances, you might as well drop the title.”

I dip my chin. “I can’t go around calling you by . . . by your true name. Can I?”

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