Page 21 of The Forgotten Prince

“Blood and bones. I don’t know what to do,” she conceded, and the admission didn’t come easily. Clearly, she needed help, and Málik was the one she trusted to ask for it, but after the way he had been behaving, it was difficult to admit such a thing to his face.

He lowered his gaze, answering with silence, perhaps weighing his words, and that vexed Gwendolyn, too, because Bryn was right: A lie of omission was still a lie.

What was he keeping from her?

She knew Esme’s father wished to see them wed.

Did Esme want that, too?

Did he?

Once returned to the Fae realm, would those two be forced to submit to their king’s demands? Was this why they were quarreling?

Blood and bloody bones!

Distressed over all the possible answers, Gwendolyn shoved the wafer into her gob, chewing with vigor, perfectly aware he’d compelled her to eat it or waste it. But he wasn’t as clever as he believed himself to be, and Gwendolyn wasn’t as dense as he might wish. Gods knew, if his feelings toward her had changed—if his silence was because he still had feelings for Esme—Gwendolyn could not allow this quest to be undermined. Not even for love. She’d spoken true that night on the ramparts: It was her duty to seek her birthright. Whatever came of her relationship with Málik, it must come second to her duty to Pretania. And regardless, she would like to know the truth. “Málik?” she prompted, slapping the crumbs from her hands.

“I am sorry,” he said, and Gwendolyn felt an immediate sense of dread over his tone.

“For what?”

For forcing her to eat the wafer?

For ignoring her?

For lying?

For loving Esme?

Gwendolyn reasoned with him. “Speak to me! How am I supposed to prepare myself for this quest if you will not counsel me—nor even speak to me about what we may encounter?”

A muscle ticked at his jaw. “I… am… trying.”

Gwendolyn lifted both brows. “Trying?”

“To prepare you.”

“With your silence?”

And then she couldn’t help herself; she missed him furiously. “Mayhap through your endless quarrels with Esme? The two of you have more than enough to say to each other,” she complained, loathing the way she sounded. “I, for one, enjoy it enormously when you whisper like lovers, and hush at my approach!”

He arched a brow. “You think us lovers?”

Gwendolyn’s cheeks heated.

“Art jealous?”

“Siblings,” she amended. “Why must you always be so evasive?”

“You know why,” he said, eyeing her pointedly, and when Gwendolyn deepened the furrow in her brow, he added, “Do you not recall the day you tried to tell your father about our time in the fogous?”

She did. The words had rested so eagerly on the tip of her tongue, and yet every time she’d attempted to speak them aloud, her voice had faltered. She’d learned so much about Málik in those fogous, and still she could share none of what she’d discovered. He nodded, seeing she understood.

“Some things I cannot say. I—” He hushed abruptly, then groaned and sighed. “For one, even spoken in jest, words are indissoluble. If I am heedful—particularly around her.” He gave Esme a dark look—one that both eased and troubled Gwendolyn at once. “It is because some words carry too much weight. Do you take my meaning?”

Glancing over her shoulder, Gwendolyn found Esme once again hounding Lir. Even from this distance, she couldn’t miss the spiteful tone.

“Youngling Druid. Will you don those lovely ear sheaths for our Fae king?”

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