Page 2 of Prince of Night and Storm
Their presence reminds me of what else I stand to lose…
“If you tell him no after he has descended past mere heat into a rut, he will come for you. Your family loves you, and your House holds you in honor. They'll fight. Their deaths won't be pleasant.”
…everything.
Numair shields my father tonight though he’s also my personal guard, hazel gaze picking apart any person who ventures too close, in his eyes an unsheathed threat. They aren't my only guards tonight, but Darkan doesn't count.
Why not?My Dark angel's voice, cool, amused, a mental presence since childhood rarely absent.I am of far more use than these children you call guards. There was no need to bring them, especially not the boy.
True. Darkan saved my life only weeks ago.When will you stop calling Numair “the boy?”
When he is fit to protect you. If he survives until then.
“We'll argue about that later,” I murmur, then glance at my people. “Let's get this over with.”
The Prince waits at the end of the walkway in a small circular courtyard, forest gardens pressed against its borders, standing on the first step of a sweeping staircase.
Courtiers drift to either side of the uneven white stone pathway. Their heady fragrance fails to hide the Faes’ toxic psychic scents. Malice, lust, amusement mingled with disdain and curiosity.
The scent of moral ambiguity combined with barely checked ambition.
Blood and jasmine.
The rot of age entwined with semi-eternal youth.
“Vultures.” The word slips out of my mouth. I don't bother to catch it. Few of them graced the White Square with their blood, or burned under the scorch of wyvern fire.
“Manners,” Baba says without moving his lips.
“Tell them to stop fucking staring.”
“Aerinne.”
Fine.
“Lord Étienne, Regent of House Faronne,” an orderly drones once we’re halfway down the path. “Aerinne Kuthliele, Lady of House Faronne.”
My fingers—they often have a mind of their own—itch to grab the iron dagger strapped to my thigh as we traverse the gauntlet of Fae, my nailbeds aching.
Prince Renaud descends the step, his attention on my face aswe approach to the utter silence of the courtyard. We’re locked in a stare; no one sane would hold his gaze like this. He would not allow it. But sanity is subjective, and Old Ones, fickle.
The Prince lifts an arm, slowly, long fingers inches from the curve of my cheekbone. Cold emanates from his skin, when he'd been heat in the White Square. Cold, and power. I breathe in both and it fills my throat, choking me, the animal side of my nature rising in response. The side that cares nothing for Court politics, the death of my family, honor.
It scents male, our male, andwants.
Almost, I jerk back, but freeze for one breath in terror—of myself.
I don’t want this.
“When he approaches you, bow. When he touches you, submit. If he asks, is this against your will, tell him his will is yours. Do as I say, and survive. Then you can plan.”
No. Irefuseto want this.
His hand moves forward?—
Chapter
Two
