Page 70 of Go Luck Yourself
kris. KRIS. surely you have five minutes to text back your king and brother
KRISTOPHER
pretty sure this is treason
I take a second to assure Wren I’m fine too—and tell her that Christmas should, in fact, make a statement.
I quickly tell her about my fall, how Loch helped me. I tell her how hewasintervening tostopthe fight—I don’t mention his magic use, since that seems to be a touchy subject, per Siobhán. Basically, I write an impromptu press release via text so Wren knows to spread the truth of what happened regarding both events.
That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? To make his reputation better. This is my job. One of my jobs, at least.
Wren responds with a thumbs-up, so it’s as good as done.
I take the world’s fastest shower. A blue sweater, jeans, and those brown shoes from the first day, nothing snarky or irreverent, not for this. My bandages survived the shower, so I leave them and throw my wet hair into a topknot, and I’m back outside my room with minutes to spare.
Loch’s already walking towards me from up the hall. His frantic clean-up has produced shower-slicked hair set off like a flame by a black turtleneck sweater and tight black pants tucked into boots.
He sighs heavily. “Dinna change your mind?”
His whole demeanor is stiff and alert, survival mode coupled with a deep, pulsing inner fury, and a little fear.
He looks how I know I do when my father is around.
“No. I didn’t change my mind,” I tell him.
Loch sighs again and keeps walking. He leads me a few halls over, past half a dozen closed doors, to one that’s more nondescript reddish-brown wood.
He doesn’t knock. Just swings the door open.
The office is a sprawling testament to the overall medieval style of the castle, with a mahogany desk in the center and heavy, dense navy curtains pulled back to show the late afternoon landscape. Bookshelves cover every wall, old antique things more for ornamentation than use, their shelves holding leather-wrapped tombs with gilded edgings, framed photographs, and other decorative knickknacks.
Behind the desk sits the guy I saw in Wren’s profiles.
Malachy Patrick.
He looks like a Wallstreet prick who talks in finances and hedge funds and investments. His suit is probably more expensive than most cars, his pale skin bronzed in a fake tan, his gray hair perfectly coiffed.
Loch stops across the desk from him, hands against his spine. “Uncle.”
Malachy glances up from a tablet in his lap. “I told Colm I’d be seeing you at—”
His focus pivots to me.
One dark brow curves over deep-set eyes, an intentional shift of both his attention and attitude.
“Ah. Our esteemed guest,” he says mildly. His accent is softer, almost English, like he’s forcing it to not be thick.
I don’t step forward for any formal introduction. I should. But I hate him, the feeling growing more potent with the way Loch’s fists are knotted behind his back.
Malachy sets his tablet on the desktop, rises, and buttons his pinstripe suit coat. Every move is gradual, taking charge of the room by making even mundane acts look calculated.
“How are you finding your time in Ireland, Prince Kristopher?” He props his hands on hips. “Is Lochlann being anattentivehost?”
I only see Loch twitch because I keep him in front of me so I can watch both him and Malachy.
“Yes.” I stare at the side of Loch’s face.
He doesn’t turn away from his uncle.
