Page 47 of Prince of Night and Storm
—Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 2
All I have in this moment is defiance—it’s on clearance. Lots of supply, zero demand. “No.”
He halts and glances up at the sky. “My amusement is diminishing. I had hoped to relearn the taste of wine tonight. Though I recall Baroun's preferences are deplorably plebeian.”
“Pity we kept you from your red.” I doubt he's a white kind of guy.
What does hewant?He has power, if our subjugation is the goal. This battle is for us, not him—and he’s spent most of it toying withme.
He lowers his head. “It is not an apology Idesire from you.”
“We are in accord. I wasn’t going to give you one.” I lift my blades.
Renaud’s mouth thins as he lets me attack, his eyes now a flat gray. I refuse to return to Faronne without every bone in my body broken from trying. I won't kneel at my mother's grave and confess weakness.
Return victorious or on your shield.
An apt sentiment,Darkan says, emotionless,if one understands the nature of victory. You only think you know why you fight. In truth, you fight only because you must. You fight to contain your own nature. It will tell in the end.
A line of fire grazes my sword arm. I ignore the pain and my Dark angel, sheathing my long dagger and shifting the sabre to my left hand so the dripping blood doesn't threaten my grip.
Panting, my breaths harsh and acid with the nausea of forcing myself to remain on my feet. The moon peeks over the horizon. Dimly, I realize Numair won the bet. If he is alive.
“Enough, Aerinne,” the Prince says, expression now concealed by the encroaching night. His eyes still glow.
“Stop. . .saying my name like that.” I sway, feeling cheated because I’m not even drunk. Whose shit idea was it to do all of this sober?
“Like what, Aerinne?”
“Like you know me.” If the consensus was we were all going to die anyway, we at least could've sent ourselves off with a keg or two.
“You cannot fathom the depths of what I know. Now, sheathe your sword.” A bite in his voice. A hint of a leviathan in his depths.
“No.”
The back of his hand crashes against my face.
My knees buckle. He'd pulled the blow at the last second, enough not to break me. But definitely sufficient to enforce the command.
Dazed, I stare up at the sky, unable to force my limbs to work. This is his second blow across my face and I wonder if it’s a kink, or efficiency.
“Prince, I’m tired, and this scenario isn’t going to end in my favor, so I wish we could skip the kicking my ass part and get to the swift dea?—”
A strong hand wraps around my sword arm and yanks me to my feet. “Tell me what you see,” he says.
“I don't need to look around.”
The white stone is awash with red, dark because of the night. The Prince surveys it coolly. The small win in this situation is that I’m still on my feet—even if it’s ‘cause he’s dangling me—and I’m breathing.
The fight must go on? Maybe after a time out?
Stubborn.
“The result of several generations worth of blood feuds.” He shakes me, incongruously gentle after the thorough walloping that has every inch of my body feeling like tenderized meat.
I match his chill, pointed tone, and fling in his face the hauteur my murdered mother could don at the drop of a hat—the effect marred because my head aches, and my words slur. I may not look like her, but I cansoundlike her. I can force him to face what he did. I can remind him why we’re here.
I can also face without flinching that I'm a hypocrite. But I never said he shouldn't want like vengeance upon me—I only wanted to get mine in first.
