Page 163 of Fearless

My palms meet plush carpet as I drop to the floor, sweeping my leg out. I hear the sound of tearing fabric before Calum topples to the floor, having lost his balance. Fumbling with the dress’s draping layers, I find my dagger beneath and pull it from the sheath.

My chest heaves. Hovering over him, I bring the tip of my blade to his neck. He stares up at me—betrayer, liar, killer of Ordinaries.

Father.

That is the most damning title of them all. And I don’t even know the half of what he’s done.

A thin line of blood stains the dagger’s point.

Do it. Kill him.

“That’s right,” he whispers beneath me. “Do it.”

I bare my teeth.

He has used every person I care about.

“Are you going to kill me or not, Daughter?”

A low growl spills from my throat, driven by hurt and hate. My body trembles.

And then I yank the blade away.

His smile is cold. “You’re so weak—”

The swirling handle of my dagger—my real father’s dagger—connects with Calum’s temple, cutting off his words.

He lies there, unconscious beside a kneeling bride.

Sweat sticks to my brow, and I swipe at it numbly. The weapon slips from my hand to thud softly against the carpet. My legs shake as I pull them beneath me and force myself off the floor. Fabric flows down my legs, unfurling to my feet in a waterfall of white. I look down to find a large tear slithering up the side of my leg, splitting the lace and exposing a sliver of my skin.

Dazed, I stumble toward the door, head spinning.

I need to tell Kitt.

Throwing the door open, I glance one last time at the scene I’m fleeing.

Notes litter the bed, an open book beside them. The smell of roses grows bitter, life and death, past and present, all mingling in the air. A decaying flower atop a jewelry box, a fresh bouquet decorating the floor. A photograph of a stranger who is suddenly so much more. Calum is sprawled beside the evidence of his treachery—a man who was once my friend, turned Father who is now dead to me.

I step out into the hall and don’t look back again.

Edric

Eighteen years after Iris’s death, Edric sees her again.

Not in body or soul, but rather, a reuniting of something long stolen.

Kitt, obsessively loyal as he was, told the king in passing of his meeting with the Slummer who had saved his Enforcer from a Resistance Silencer. The heir spoke vaguely of her alluring appearance—the dripping silver hair she greeted him at the door with, but more intriguing, her burning blue eyes.

The king, upon hearing each unnecessary detail, thought nothing of the girl who would likely die in his first Trial. Having no clear memory of his mother, Kitt saw little more than a pretty face before him. Any portraits of the late queen were locked away or in the possession of the king, who rarely displayed his lost love. But for the few times Edric allowed his son to admire them, he remembered nothing of note to connect the queen and this contestant.

But Kitt had never memorized the eyes of Iris Moyra quite like his father had.

The first time Edric sees his daughter since she was an embarrassment in his arms is when she confidently takes a seat at his table.

Each contestant has filed into the throne room before his and her majesty make their grand entrance. The sight of Paedyn’s eyes—Iris’s eyes—nearly brings the king to his knees. But with a knack for deceit comes the gift of composure. Edric forces a stoic strength into his voice, addresses his contestants, and sits mere feet from the forgotten princess.

The king has not given thought to her, or the disgrace she had temporarily brought to his name, in eighteen years. But with her blue eyes locked on his, that flood of hatred carves a destructive path to his heart once again. She is more than everything Edric despises—she is his weakness.

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