Page 65 of Prince of Night and Storm
“The male on the battlefield was a master of himself, Nora. Every lash, inflection, or sigh.”
“The only way a Temthrennes male avoids a triggered rut is through death. Not his.”
Her clinical tone sets me on edge, as if she’s reciting text from a biology book. “You’re focused on the rut, but I think the Prince who killed my mother has decided amends are to be made by claiming her daughter—warped Fae male psychology, with a dash of Old One psychopathy to add flair.”
“Both explanations can be true. Aerinne—donotunderestimate the danger of the rut. You can politick a High Lord, you cannot politick a beast.”
Her gaze wanders the room as she meanders and picks up books or small objects, playing with each before setting them aside. The tactile contact must keep her focused.
Turning my head, I stare at his picture, sliding off the desk to approach the wall as she talks.
“Instead of fighting him, you might run. Let me crush that delusion now, in case you think you have somehow come up with a solution no one in this situation before you considered.”
And the family says I’m sarcastic.
“He would hunt, and he would destroy everything in his path. Again, once he caught you, in his anger there might not be much left for him to claim.”
His ragged face stares at me in black ink, the eyes dead. As unemotional as his eyes can be, they are never empty.
“This is all counterproductive. I don't understand the biological strategy behind creatures who kill potential reproductive partners in fits of possessive rage. How do you spawn?” Tiny dart holes make the paper rough under my fingers as I trace the bridge of his nose.
“I am gratified you're able to maintain your sense of humor?—”
“You’re the only one who says I have one, Aunt Nora.” Trace his lips, pause, lift my gaze to those inked eyes again. What they will look like when his lips touch mine. Dark and heated, or hungry and possessive.
“—but only because you've never seen the bodies of your friends and family splattered on the walls as a male High Lord ripped through them to get to the person he wanted.”
This reminds me that even people as old as Nora—if I need the reminder—still operate from their unresolved trauma.
I still, my hand freezing.
“I saw it, Aerinne. The High one is never punished because we are all taught to remain out of the eye of a Lord if we don't wish to bear the consequences. This situation is unfortunate for you. You weren't taught to handle a male ofhispower in a sexual heat.”
I rip the picture down from the wall and begin shredding it into pieces. How could I wonder about the taste of Renaud’s lips?
Cold, I turn and step on the paper scraps as I walk back to my desk and lean a hip on it. “What did I do wrong? How did I catch his attention? There are others ways to make amends besides claiming me.”
Nora sits on my battered brown leather couch, crossing her ankles as she considers my question. “That is why I believe it is the rut. He loves Muriel—he could have taken you as a daughter, a ward, even a protege, and he’s never been one for casual sexual liaisons.”
Heavy silence descends. I pick up a folder—letters of payment arrears from the palace—and throw it across the room. It hits the wall and papers spew out, fluttering to the floor.
“You're telling me I can't fight. I can't run. What can I do?”
“Navigate his instincts. When he is certain of you, his grip on your neck will loosen. You must be canny, Aerinne. 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.”
She rises and walks to the door, opening it. “Don't trigger his instincts to hunt. Redirect them to protect.”
Nora pokes her head back into the office, her eyes unfocused. “Aerinne. . .once in warning, twice in punishment, thrice is death.”
I sit there after she leaves again. She must mean the Vow, and a good old-fashioned American three strikes and you're out.
A Realms damned ball.
I need a drink.
Chapter
Twenty
