Page 66 of Bonds of Hate

For now, I’ll do my best to stay on his good side and see where this unexpected path leads me.

We’re in a quiet wing of the castle, nowhere near the hubbub of the more central areas. I haven’t seen a lingering servant or guard on duty since we entered this wing.

Poe stops at a set of ornate doors, the wood panels carved with delicate flowers and intricate whorls. To my surprise, he hesitates. His hands fist hard around the lever handles, but he doesn’t move to open the doors.

Almost as if he is gathering himself.

“What are you waiting for?” I ask softly.

He turns on me with an aggressive snarl that momentarily transforms his face into something terrifying. I instinctively jump back with a shocked squeak and his expression clears into the now familiar mask of cold neutrality.

“Nothing,” he flatly replies and shoves the doors open. “After you.”

As soon as the space beyond is revealed, I understand why the hallways had been as quiet as a tomb.

White sheets cover the distinct shapes of elaboratefurniture. Dust motes float through air that smells stale, as if no one else has breathed it for years.

The only thing uncovered in the entire room is a large portrait depicting a beautiful woman, bearing an elaborate crown of diamonds atop a riot of caramel-colored curls. A pair of imperious golden eyes are narrowed in regal contemplation. The painting is so detailed that she appears to be looking down her nose right at me.

Eyes that are achingly familiar.

This is the last Omega queen of Melilla.

Also known as Prince Logan’s mother.

Correction — Prince Logan’s dead mother.

“This is the queen’s chambers,” I gasp.

Poe hustles me inside and shuts the door behind us with a low click. “Obviously.”

I pitch my voice to a whisper, more out of reverence than because I fear being overheard. “Are we supposed to be in here?”

“Probably not,” he says with a shrug. “But there aren’t any specific rules against it I know of, so we’ll worry about begging for forgiveness later.”

Poe has never struck me as the rebellious type. If anything, he is more like Logan’s personal attack dog. Borderline rabid and loyal only to his owner.

I decide not to question the apparent change in him.

“What exactly are we doing here?”

Poe strides through the sitting area, leaving no question he knows exactly where he’s going as I follow him into the boudoir. “The king ordered these rooms closed on the day she died and he promised to never allow them to be usedagain, even if he remarried. Everything is pretty much how she left it.”

“Okay?”

“Everything,” he repeats. “Including this…”

He throws open the doors of a walk-in closet with a flourish, posing with his arms out like a magician who just pulled a rabbit out of his hat.

I can’t blame him. He has managed to produce exactly what we need out of thin air.

The closet is full to bursting. A decade’s worth of high fashion fit for a queen in an array of styles, fabrics and colors, all perfectly maintained as if waiting for their moment to shine once again.

Queen Midale was always known for her fashion sense and exquisite style. She graced the covers of fashion magazines for years, inspiring copycat versions of her wardrobe from courtiers to the poorest of the city’s denizens.

Showing up to the gala in one of her old gowns carries the risk of being seen as classless. But if we play the moment right, turn it into homage, Pack Logan will have the attention of the entire court. People would probably spend the entire night unable to talk about anything else.

Poe’s expression is unreadable as he stares at the closet full of gowns. “Think you can make something here work?”

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