Page 101 of The Night Prince

“No.” His tone is clipped. “I wasn’t his only pet.”

“Who?” I shove the book at him again. “Who did this?”

“Why?”

“I want to know.”

He shrugs, as if it’s inconsequential. “Who do you think? The Maester of Healing at the palace.”

I feel as if I’m underwater. “Did... did my father know?”

“Did he know?” The corner of his lip tugs up, but there’s no amusement in his eyes. “It was his program, little rabbit.”

My pulse thunders in my ears, and I hear another one competing with it. I’d place Blake as three or four years older than me. That means he must have been somewhere in the King’s City—perhaps even the palace itself—being torn apart, while I was attending dancing lessons, or preening in front of the mirror. My own naivety rises up in my throat on a wave of nausea. How could I have been so clueless as to what was happening?

Yet amid the shock and the anger that courses through me, something darker pervades. That wildness stills. My skin prickles, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Any empathy is replaced by something cold and wary. I step away, and my back bumps into the wall on the other side of the corridor. All this time, I had thought I was a pawn in his game with Callum. He told me he hated the Wolves, and that he wanted to rule them.

It occurs to me now that he has just as much reason to hate humans. My father may be a far bigger foe to him than Callum, or James, or any of the Wolves. Perhaps taking the Wolf Throne is part of a bigger game, and my role in it won’t be over if he defeats Callum. Perhaps he has something even bigger in store for me. Last night, in my dream, he tried to persuade me to kill Philip.

Perhaps he wants the whole world to burn.

“Are you going to hurt me?” I ask.

A tense silence stretches between us. My skin hums.

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip. “No.”

I try to feel him through the bond, but everything feels dark. “Are you going to hurt my brother?”

“Only if you ask me to.”

“What about Callum? Will you kill him? Do I get a choice in that?”

He runs a hand over the sharp edge of his jaw. “If he forfeits when I challenge him, I will let him go.”

“And me? Will you let me go?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

My skin prickles. He’s lying. His choice seems to pulse in the air between us, dark and certain, and a word vibrates along the thread that links us.No.

I steady my breathing. “What happened to the Maester? Did you kill him?”

“That is not the right question, little rabbit.”

“What is the right question?”

“If you ask it, I shall tell you.” He tucks in his shirt. “But no, the Maester still lives.” He walks away, in the direction of the Great Hall, and the tension is broken.

“Blake.”

He halts. “Yes?”

“Last night, the dream... It was real, wasn’t it?”

He inclines his head. Coldness fills me.

---