Page 97 of Embers in the Snow

It isn’t the first time I’ve gone out to hunt lycans in the middle of the night, but the accursed beasts have never dared to venture so close to the castle before.

“You are to return to Ruen today,” I say at last. “Aderick Solisar will remain here, in the company of Kastel Solisar and Garan Lorian, until he is deemed fit enough to return home.”

The baron stiffens, but says nothing.

“Furthermore, from this day onwards, I am taking over stewardship of the Solisar Estate. This arrangement shall remain until I deem that one of your heirs is qualified enough to inherit your title.”

Nowthe outrage overrides his fear of me. “What?You can’t do that! You have no right or authority!”

Lucar Solisar attempts to rise, but Marcus warns him with a quick tap of his sword hilt. “His Highness didnotgive you permission to stand.”

“Your father won’t let you get away with this,” Solisar hisses. “It’s against the laws of the Empire.”

“I can assure you, I know the laws of this empire intimately. And your estate is operating from a position of insolvency. If you want your heirs to inherit it, I would suggest you do not protest my generosity, because I could just as easily claim the entire estate for myself.”

“W-what are you talking about? I don’t understand.”

“I’ve bought your debts, Lucar. Iownyou.”

He looks up. His pale blue eyes are lifeless. He shakes his head, as if trying to break out of a trance. “I… I should never have…”

“You did this, Lucar Solisar. You wanted this. Be careful what you wish for. Finley is mine now, and if you ever so much as harm a single hair on her head again, I’llkill you—or worse. Now, get out of my sight.”

Marcus quirks a grey eyebrow, giving me a half-amused, satisfied look. He enjoys this sort of thing. “You heard His Highness. Get up, Baron. You can fuck right off now, all right?”

30

FINLEY

Since I was reliably informed that the boys are still snoring in their beds and will probably remain that way until at least midday, I take breakfast in my chambers at a small, elegant table by the window. There’s scrambled eggs and freshly baked bread and figs and smoked trout and strong black coffee.

I wolf it all down. The coffee annihilates the drilling pain and the pounding in my temples. I must’ve had more wine last night than I thought.

I’m dressed in warm traveling gear—boots, leather trousers, woollen undergarments and tunic, fur-lined jacket. All in tasteful shades of brown and russet, trimmed with creamy white. My hair is tied in a high ponytail.

Gerent advised me to dress like this. Apparently, Corvan and I are going on atrip.

He told me so last night.

I take a bite of the perfectly light, crispy, buttered baguette, followed by a mouthful of rich, fluffy, savory egg.

Tyron Castle’s chef must be a genius.

Corvan sits down in the chair opposite.

I blink. I didn’t even hear him enter. Butterflies swirl in my stomach, but I pretend to keep my composure. “Do you regularly entertain yourself by startling the living daylights out of people?” My words come out muffled through mouthfuls of delicious egg and bread.

He gives me a slight frown, trying to look contrite. “I should have announced myself, but you looked like you were enjoying your food too much. Couldn’t bring myself to spoil the moment.”

“You…” I shake my head as I take him in.

The Archduke of Tyron leans back in his chair, allowing a shaft of morning sunlight to catch his elegant features.

He’s dressed as practically as I am, in sturdy trousers tucked into long leather boots and a leather-trimmed jacket with grey fur lining the collar.

But his outfit is all black. His hands are encased in black gloves.

He looks like a villain from a fantasy tale.

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