Page 23 of Dragon Unleashed

I flip through more cuttings. Most articles gripe about how she was sheltered from the press; their access to her was obviously limited by the royal family. The very last clipping talks about her disappearance.

With the devastating murder of King and Queen Mael only last week, it is our sad job to announce the discovery of Princess Irena’s body. Many had hoped she’d escaped, but today the P.I.G. announced Princess Irena was brutally murdered only a few short days after the demise of her parents. With her death the line of Mael has ended. Long live the Angel King, who has dutifully stepped into the rift to rule our kingdom in its hour of great sadness.

I bury my face in my hands. It’s not much more than I knew before, but it feels like a lot. A heaviness sits on my chest. The sofa sinks beside me, and Farrell places a hand on my knee. I should shake him off, but I just don’t have the energy.

“Holding it together, princess?”

I nod. I’m sad, but I’m not about to break down and sniffle on his shoulder. He graces me with a rare smile, and swoops in, hugging me tightly with one arm. In his other, he holds his phone. A flash goes off, blinding me, before he pulls away.

“That will keep Father happy for a while.”

Motherfucker.

I can’t get a single word out as I watch him type some stupid message and upload the photo to Magabook. Within seconds it’s out there in the public domain.

Every single time I soften toward him, he ups his assholery.

“You had to take a nice moment and ruin it.” I scrabble to put all the clippings back in the box.

“Hellfire, Lorelei. Itwasa nice moment.” He throws himself back on the sofa, and the old leather creaks in distress. “I have to keep Father happy. It’s for your safety.”

“My safety? How exactly is taking advantage of a vulnerable moment, snapping a picture and pretending to the world we’re a couple…how is that looking after my safety?”

“He wasn’t asking, Lorelei. The Virrey doesn’t make requests. He wanted us to cause a distraction by dating. It’s not like you’ve given me much to work with. And it’s dangerous not to do what that man says.”

“I’d never date a manipulative asshole like you.”

“You’re not leaving me any choice, Lorelei.”

Clutching the box to my chest, I walk out of Farrell’s suite.

Chapter Eleven: Lorelei

Dammit. I’ve lost focus on the book sitting in my lap, again. I shuffle back on my bed, easing out my legs, taking care not to knock the stacks of papers piled around me. I have to catch up.

I’ve barely made it through classes the last few days. No matter how concerned Chano looks, or how often Val nudges me, I’m lost in my thoughts again moments later. There’s so much to process, so much I don’t understand about the rebellion. Hell, so much I don’t understand about myself, or about Farrell.

Farrell does care. His flavor of caring is hideously twisted by his upbringing, his father. But he’s not acting out of malice. I’m sure of it.

Giving up on studying, I perch my textbook precariously on top of the stack at my bedside.

But Farrell said it himself. He has other priorities. I have to look out for myself.

First step, learn about the rebellion; second, keep my head down and my mouth shut. I need to endure the Virrey long enough to find a way out. An escape. I amnotstaying his ward.

I stand and stretch, immediately getting tangled in Naeve’s multicolored wool. I’ll hand it to her, she knows when she’s not wanted. The girl’s been a ghost. A knitting ghost. We’re only here at the same time if we’re sleeping. Maybe she finally hooked up with Beck the barman or…or maybe she took my stance on our friendship to heart. Gently I roll up the wool and place it neatly on her bed. Gazing down at the half-finished scarf tangled in her covers, I get an odd ache in my chest.

Dammit, she betrayed me. I shouldn’t miss her.

It’s not like I’ll see her again tonight either. My first-ever training session with Lady Tenebrae started…five minutes ago.

Mismatched eyes lock onto me the moment I skid into the teaching lab.

“Late,” she says. Lady Tenebrae is lounging in a leather chair, one hand twirling a very long thin cigar and the other clutching a cocktail glass. She puffs out a perfect smoke ring.

Standing, she places her glass delicately on the lab bench beside her.

“Lock the door, Miss Bal.”

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