Page 49 of The Twisted Throne

His father mirrored the motion, co-conspirator in a confession. “I would not be able to sleep at night, tormented by the faces of those who died under Maridrinian blades, all while she lived and laughed. I would be consumed.” He waved the hand holdingthe drink, the contents nearly going over the rim. “You’re a better woman than I am, Ahnna.”

“That’s not much of an accomplishment,” she said without hesitation. “For you are no woman.”

His father barked out a laugh. “Oh, you are a delight. A balm to my boredom. But let us turn to lighter topics. How do you feel about adulterated spirits?”

Ahnna went stiff as a board, the color draining from her face, and James knew the only word she’d heard wasadultery.To spare her, he swiftly said, “He refers to mixed drinks. Concoctions of various sorts of liquors and the occasional syrup. It is my father’s newest hobby, but show care, my lady, for the sweetest drinks tend to pack the hardest punch.”

“A hobby.” Ahnna said the word as though it were a foreign concept.

“Father gains a new hobby every year,” came Virginia’s voice from down the table, his sister leaning forward. “And we must all participate. We are, all of us, very talented at croquet, taxidermy, and rose gardening, to say nothing of horse racing, hunting, tennis, and lawn bowling.”

“You make me sound inconstant in my pursuits, darling,” his father complained. “Jamie, be a good lad and offer some support.”

James shrugged. “You are well rounded in your interests, Father.”

“Bullies, all of you.” His father motioned at the servants to begin bringing out the food. “All I do is try to expand your minds, and in exchange, I must suffer your abuse. Ahnna, the mixing of spirits is as much an art as it is a science, and our culinary schools are creating whole books on the topic. I would like to take you to visit them, for I think that you might—”

He cut off as the herald abruptly announced, “His Most Royal Highness, Crown Prince William.”

Ahnna’s focus snapped to thefar end of the grand hall with such force that her neck clicked. Her gaze latched upon the man ambling up the aisle between the tables, two other men of a similar age flanking him, all three bearing the grins of those deep in their cups.

“Sorry I’m late,” William said. “The races went long, and I had a horse in the final. Took the prize, so it was worth the wait.”

Next to her, Edward said nothing, and Ahnna kept her face blank as she took in the man she was supposed to marry. Her mistaking James for him was something to be forgiven, for they were very similar in appearance. High cheekbones, square jaws, straight noses, and mouths possessed of decidedly full bottom lips. But whereas James was ruggedly handsome, his beauty wholly masculine, William was more delicate and finer-boned, almost fragile. Like glassworks that are to be admired but never ever touched. His brown hair did not hold the copper hue of his brother’s, and it was longer, nearly down to his shoulders, his eyes green, not amber.

William’s attention was fixed on his father as he walked, almost as though he were daring Edward to say something about his tardiness. About his drunkenness. About his impertinence. Yet for all his angry words in private, in front of all these people, the king of Harendell held his tongue.

Just before the head table, the three men stopped, all bowing low. William’s two companions moved to the side, devil-may-care grins on their faces, leaving the crown prince standing alone. Only then did William’s attention shift to her. A lazy drifting of his gaze, and the utter fury in his eyes made her stomach clench. He hadn’t needed to see her to dislike her—he’d come to this dinner already hating her.

“Your Highness,” he said. “I’d heard that the Maridrinians had had their way with you, but I did not expect to see it written across your face.”

Next to her, James shifted restlessly, but Edward was entirely silent. Ahnna wanted to be angry with him for not putting his son in his place for his rudeness, but expecting that was foolish. Ignoring the sting to her pride, Ahnna stared William in the eye, questioning the right path forward—whether it was better to silently take the insult or defend herself. And it took her only a heartbeat to decide that it didn’t matter what she did. This wasn’t a battle between her and William; it was a battle between father and son, and she needed only to choose whose side she was on.

An easy choice given that Edward ruled, and so Ahnna said, “It is true that it was a Maridrinian who wounded my face, but that was the only blow he struck. The next was mine, and it left his innards on the outside and him dying a slow death while I cut down his companions.” She ignored the shocked gasps from the watching nobles. “I’ve been cut a hundred times or more by those who desired my death and worse, yet I am the one who still draws breath, whereas they are naught but shit expelled from the asses of Ithicana’s sharks.”

She could not see Edward’s face, but Ahnna did not miss his soft chuckle, little more than an amused exhale of breath that none of the nobility would have heard. But William did, and his eyes narrowed.

“I thought Ithicana was sending me a wife, not a bodyguard.”

“Why not both?” Ahnna asked.

“Indeed,” Edward murmured. “I’ve always thought it wise to choose a wife whose strengths compensate for a man’s weaknesses.”

William’s jaw tightened, the blow striking in the way only old and painful grievances can, and though she’d not intended for her words to be taken that way, Ahnna knew where the blame would fall.

“Enough,” Alexandra snapped. “William, join us. The food grows cold.”

The room was entirely silent as everyone waited to see how the crown prince would respond, and for her part, Ahnna thought he’d turn on his heel and leave the room. Instead, he lifted his shoulder in a shrug, then stepped onto the dais and took his place next to his mother.

The servants moved as though on cue, bringing plates of artfully sculpted greens, setting them before everyone at the head table. Ahnna’s heart throbbed, her pulse a roar in her ears as she stared at the artful masterpiece of lettuce and cucumber, which was no outlet for her adrenaline.

So she turned to James, who was staring pensively at his own salad, and said softly, “Thank you.”

“For what?” He jabbed at the salad with his fork as though he might murder the lettuce.

“Preparing me. If I hadn’t known this was coming, I might already be running.”

James’s fork hesitated, then stabbed a piece of cucumber. “The night is young.”

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