Page 61 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

“You know you cannot kill me,” Rahk says as he dances around the assassin. “I don’t need weapons to kill you both. So let the boy go, and I’ll spare your lives.”

The one holding me squeezes my throat so hard black spots erupt across my vision. I try to say,“Rahk,”but it only comes out in a wheeze.

The prince’s tone changes. Darkens. “Let the boy go. Now. You hurt him, you die.”

Hooves come clopping down the hallway. “My lord! What is happening? You, sir! It is too early for calling! Please come again at a—”

The assassin yanks me aside and pivots toward the approaching Edvear, still keeping Rahk in view. The hooves on flooring go silent and I manage a weak smile at Edvear’s open-mouthed shock, illuminated by the single candle he holds. My vision swims.

“Much too early for calling,” I croak.

Edvear’s face turns a furious shade of purple. His voice drops. “That is one of my staff. You let him go at once.”

Just then, a body goes flying past me and slams into plaster. Rahk is right in front of me, his hands closing around my assassin’s wrists. I end up smashed between them as they both let out strained grunts. Rahk yanks the hand with the knife away, twisting his thumb at a hard angle until the assassin releases a cry and the blade clatters to the ground. Then he pries the other hand off my throat and anchors his weight, whirling the assassin off me and face first into a bookshelf.

Edvear catches me with an arm beneath my shoulder blades. With his other hand, he pulls a kitchen knife out of his belt and stabs it into the back of the assassin stuck in the plaster. It shocks me so much I stumble.

“Just making sure he’s dead,” Edvear says, yanking his knife free and wiping it clean. “He is. Come, let’s get a bandage for that cut.”

A strangled cry cuts off abruptly from the study as Edvear leads me away. My legs sway and buckle with every other step. How come I am fearless in the Fae Courts, but so unsteadied by a few humans? My throat is scratchy, and I suck in deep breaths to make up for the ones I lost.

“Nat.”

Edvear pauses. I turn around to find Rahk standing in the doorway of his study, his tall frame flanked by corpses and busted walls. His expression, lit by the faint sunlight coming through his broken window, is strange. I cannot decipher it.

“How did you know about the mercenaries?” he asks.

My gaze travels to the body Edvear stabbed. Five men lie dead now who were alive only minutes ago. I swallow. It hurts. “I saw them out my window. They went to your bedroom first. I realized they had come for you. Did the queen send them?”

“Yes,” he replies, planting his hands on his hips and shifting his weight. He studies the one dead assassin sticking out of the plastered wall. Blood smears down his back from Edvear’s strike. He lifts his gaze back to me. Something flashes deep in his dark pupils. “Thank you. For warning me.”

It only now occurs to me that if I’d let him die, my Ivy Mask problem would have been solved.Great thinking, Kat.

Still, in my heart of hearts, I know I could not have stood by and let it happen. “But . . . but I almost didn’t even get there in time.”

He smiles slightly, ruefully. “I am glad that you did.” He scratches the back of his neck. “That marble bust—who was that of?”

“A composer named Botsov, my lord.”

He nods, and his smile turns a little more genuine. “That was quick thinking.”

He has offered praise before, but there is something about the way he says this that strikes me differently.Deeper. It’s as if it is spoken by the real Rahk, the one beneath the hardened expressions. The one I have only caught tiny glimpses of.

“The lad is bleeding, my lord,” Edvear says, firming his grip on my shoulder.

Something drips off my chin. I reach up, touch the side of my face—the side that is turned away from Rahk—and am surprised to see how much blood is on my hand. “Oh.” I look back at the prince. He has taken a step toward me, but stops.

“Please, help him with whatever he needs,” Rahk says to Edvear. He shifts his weight again, glancing at the damage around him, almost looking . . .lost. “I will deal with this. And Nat—I don’t know if you meant what you said, but I was never going to let them kill you. You know that, right?”

My lips part slightly. I let myself be dragged away to avoid giving a reply.

Edvear takes me to the kitchen. Charity has her back to us, stoking the fire. She is the only one in the room; Becky still sleeps. My temple aches, my throat scratchy and sore. I sit down on one of the bar stools. My head turns heavy.

“Please do not be alarmed, Mrs. Finch,” says Edvear. “Nat has had a little accident and needs some hot tea with honey while I bandage him.”

Charity latches the oven and turns toward us. She inhales sharply, just as Edvear says again, “Everything is fine, Mrs. Finch. It is a little scratch.”

“Well, the blood from thatlittle scratchis falling on my counter! Nat, what happened? Here, sweetheart.” She hands me a clean towel to hold to my temple.

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