Chapter Twenty-Eight
I try to speak, but no words come. My mouth works as I stare up at the prince—at the hairpin hovering near his throat.
“This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve rendered a woman speechless,” Titus drawls, his lips tilting slightly. He cuts his gaze at the hairpin. “However, that’s new.”
My grip on the hairpin loosens, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. His warmth bleeds through my glove, and I realize he no longer wears his own. I gape at the collection of ink starting at his fingers and creeping up his wrist, my gaze fixed on the tattoo covering the back of his bare hand—a sparrow in flight.
“I meant no offense,” I manage to say, meeting his haughty gaze once more.
His deep blue eyes glow like the sea set aflame. “The fault is all mine.” A coy, tight-lipped smile as he releases my hand. “I clearly startled you.”
“You did nothing of the sort,” I argue, attempting to pin my hair back the way Margaret styled it. The prince watches, eyes flickering with subtle amusement as I twist the upper half of my hair and secure it in a sloppy fashion. I’m tempted to use his face as a pincushion.
“Forgive me,” he purrs. “It seems I’ve misread the situation.” His gaze rakes over me, a wry grin on his lips. “You see, usually when someone appears startled, it’s because they are.”
“I’m not—” I glance down at my dress, where grass stains my knees, and groan. “You didn’t startle me.”
“You’re right.” He winks. “ Startled does seem to be the wrong word. Flustered, perhaps?”
“I’m not flustered,” I grind out, starting past him.
“Of course not.” He follows me, his long strides keeping a lazy, effortless pace. “You were expecting someone, obviously. Just not me.”
I roll my eyes. “Obviously.”
I search the ground where Henry and I stood only a few minutes before, but the strip of yellow chiffon is missing—just like the knapsack that disappeared that night near the conservatory. My heart drops into my stomach, panic flooding my senses, when—
“Looking for this?” Titus extends the scrap of fabric, and I notice a matching sparrow tattoo on his other hand—a twin set.
I reach for the fabric, but he yanks it back. The ring on his forefinger catches my eye. The royal signet. A fresh film of scarlet wax besmirches the sun of the Eerie, causing dread to pool low in my gut.
His brows knit. “Who is Owen?”
I make to grab the fabric again, but he’s too fast, holding it over his head, out of reach. He gives me an expectant look, one that sets my teeth on edge.
“Do I know him?” he asks, a portrait of innocent curiosity.
My cheeks burn. “You wouldn’t,” I bite out.
“I might surprise you,” he says, tilting his head conspiratorially. Moonlight casts an angelic glow on half of his face, making him appear soft and warm and tragically beautiful. The other half is concealed by shadows, giving him the sinister appearance I always thought he would have. He flashes his teeth in a smile meant to charm—like a viper poised to strike. “I know a lot of people.”
“I’m sure you do.” My fingers twitch, aching to lodge the hairpin in his throat. “Just as I’m also sure you don’t know him.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, obnoxiously playful. “And how can you be so sure?”
His boyish teasing makes a part of me almost wish I didn’t have to ruin his pleasant mood— almost . The other part of me wants to take from him what he took from me. To make him bleed.
I pull back my shoulders, schooling my expression into one that I hope looks as cold and cruel as I feel. “Because he’s dead. You have your captain to thank for that.”
Titus’s eyes widen slightly, his mouth forming a hard line. “I—” He takes a sharp breath, his jaw clenching. “I’m so sorry, Aster. Truly, I am. Will mentioned there’d been casualties.…”
He lowers his arm, the scrap of fabric glowing gold in the lamplight. Sorrow flickers in his eyes, and his face is drawn with a look of genuine regret. He appears dutiful, like a soldier awaiting command, glancing at the strip of yellow chiffon still in his grasp. He murmurs, “May I?”
I don’t know what to say. How does one accept an apology from the prince of the Eerie? Someone I’ve been taught to hate—to fear. The reason for all my misfortune. The reason Owen is dead.
But… he isn’t responsible. Not really. Will told me the captain acted of his own accord. And by the look on Titus’s face, what Will said about the prince being willing to hang the man for his disobedience… seeing the prince now, I think he would have punished the captain in ways that might have made him wish for death. And when Titus said he was sorry… as much as I hate to believe him, I do.
Titus clears his throat. I give a stiff nod, and he makes a motion for me to turn. My shoulders tense as he brings the strip of fabric over my head, wrapping it around my throat. I brace myself for the feeling of being strangled, but as his knuckles skim my collarbone, an entirely different sensation twists my stomach into knots.
“I must apologize for being so forthright,” he says, his breath tickling the back of my head. “But I feel as if I already know you.”
He takes a deliberate step back, giving me room to turn and face him. I find him staring at me as if I were something worth looking at, his mouth parting slightly on a breath. There’s something awed in his expression, but it’s so brief I think I’ve imagined it. His features smooth out, matching his indolent posture as he tucks one hand into his pocket.
“William has done nothing but speak of you.” He smirks, running a hand through his tousled blond hair. “Although, he failed to mention how easily frightened you are.”
I snort. For someone who has done nothing but speak of me for the past few months, Will has hardly spoken to me tonight. And the few words he did say…
I make a fist. “Don’t you have anything else you could be doing?”
He blinks, a faintly amused smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t you?”
When I don’t answer, starting toward the muddy bank of the pond, he follows, his hands in his pockets. My skin itches where I feel the heat of his gaze on my face, and I think of all the nights I pictured this exact moment—a minute alone with the king’s flesh and blood. His only heir. How I imagined he would beg for mercy. All the things I would say to him before I took his life. Now that he’s here, trailing alongside me, all I can think about is how… patient he’s been despite my blatant, treasonous disrespect.
It’s infuriating.
“If you don’t mind,” I say through my teeth, “I’d prefer to be alone.”
“How interesting.” He brushes an invisible speck of dirt from his shoulder. “I’d prefer not to be alone.”
“Do you prefer to be annoying as well?”
He shrugs. “On occasion.”
I lift my dress as we round the pond, picking up the pace. As beautiful as the gown is, I’d give anything to wear a pair of trousers again.
“In that case, there are about two dozen women inside that I’m sure would be thrilled to be annoyed by the prince of the Eerie.”
He flashes me a charming smile. “I’d much rather be here, annoying you specifically.”
“Lucky me.”
I glance at Bludgrave, at the warm amber glow of the ballroom, and imagine Will with one of those gaudy women on either arm. If Will knew I was alone with the prince… what would he think? Would he be jealous? Should I want him to be?
Before I know it, we’ve reached Hildegarde’s Folly, its dark reflection looming over the moonlit water. A raven perches on its domed roof, watching me with shrewd, knowing eyes.
In the time I’ve lived at Bludgrave, I’ve explored almost every inch of these grounds. But… after I saw the strange vision of blood dripping from the columns, and with Martin having discovered Annie’s disemboweled atroxis here, this is the one place I’ve steered clear of. But as we approach the stone steps, I feel a sort of tugging in my chest, drawing me forward. My skin prickles as I take a step and another. I’ve almost forgotten Titus is behind me as I enter the folly, when a cool gust of wind causes me to stumble backward, and—
“Ouch,” he grunts, hands on my arms to steady me. “I probably deserved that.”
I peel my foot from the top of his shoe. “That was an accident.” I add, somewhat under my breath, “This time.”
He gives a startled laugh, but his hands linger on my arms. “And you’re not sorry about either instance in which your foot has ended up on top of mine?”
“Not in the least.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Oh?” My brows lift. “I don’t surprise you?”
“Quite the contrary,” he says, his breath on the back of my head the only trace of warmth in the open-air structure. “For example, I’m surprised you haven’t pulled away from me yet.”
His words are like a splash of cold water, a reminder of where I currently stand. My vision sharpens on the statue at the center of the folly, and I find myself craning to glimpse the face of a woman, a stone crown dipped low over her brow and the carved likeness of a child nestled to her bosom.
“Hildegarde,” Titus murmurs, his reverent tone like a holy prayer spoken aloud—powerful and resonant. “The Mother of Queens.” He doesn’t move away, his presence enveloping me as if it pulses in the air around us. It’s almost as if I can hear his heartbeat pounding in my ears.
“What do you know about her?” I whisper, my own pulse kicking up.
He clears his throat as his hands fall away from my arms, and I take a few steps to the side, putting a considerable amount of distance between us, an unwanted rush of warmth flooding my cheeks.
“Only what I learned in my basic studies,” Titus answers, his voice thick, hands sliding into his pockets. When I glance at him, he wears that same awed expression he had when he looked at me in the garden. “She was a fierce warrior and protector of the Eerie before my kind took the throne.”
I shake my head. “A human on the throne…”
A half grin as he angles toward me, drawing my attention from the statue. “Is that so hard to believe?”
I find myself staring into his deep blue eyes. They twinkle like the sea reflecting the stars, mesmerizing and infinite. “There are a lot of things I find hard to believe.”
Another wry grin as he closes the distance between us. “Like how you’ve spent your whole life wishing me dead and now that you’ve met me you find me utterly irresistible?” He leans in, as if sharing a secret. “I know you want to kill me. You’re probably thinking about it right now.”
My heart skips a full beat.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t considered taking this opportunity to drive a blade through my heart?” His mouth twists, a cruel smirk. “I certainly would, if I were you.”
Something in the air shifts—subtle, but unnerving nonetheless. As if on instinct, I glance between the stone columns at Bludgrave, its gilded lights like a beacon in the distance. I turn to take a step back, but he moves swiftly, blocking the only exit. He prowls toward me, forcing me to give up ground, his head tilted as if he were sizing up his prey. His tongue swipes over his bottom lip as my back collides with the base of the statue at the center of the dome, knocking the air from my lungs with an audible whoosh .
He stretches an arm out, his palm pressed against the stone an inch from my head, caging me in, barring me from any hope that I could make it across the lawn to safety. It was foolish to think I could run. He is a Nightweaver. A bloodletter. A prince.
And you are Aster Oberon , I imagine Owen would say. You bow to no king.
“Give it up, Aster,” Titus purrs. “I know about the Order. I know why you’re here tonight.” He tsks, shaking his head, his tousled blond hair splaying over his forehead. “You’ve made quite the climb. Pirate to servant girl, servant girl to the object of the Castor boys’ affections.”
His wandering gaze takes in every inch of my face, as if ravenous for any indication of fear. Finally, I see him for who he really is—the wicked prince from my nightmares.
“When Will first spoke of you,” he drawls, “I knew I had to meet this mysterious, violent creature who managed to wrap the young Lord Castor around her finger.” His thumb strokes my jaw, his touch light, almost as if he were aware of the feel of his calloused skin on my own. Shivers skitter down my spine, and my stomach twists into knots. He seems to notice this, a pained emotion I don’t understand flickering in his eyes before the eager, deadly gleam takes its place once more.
“I must say, from what Will told me, I didn’t expect you to be so trusting.” He brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, drawing close, his whisper warm on my cheek. “You made this rather easy for me, Aster.”
I clench my teeth, my hands balling into fists. Fool. It was foolish to allow myself to be placed in this position. How could I have strayed so far from my original purpose—to kill the prince and make him pay for what he’s done—in such a short amount of time? Trusting that he could be anything more than a slimy, murderous brute should be my downfall. After all, I know better than to trust anyone—especially not the Nightweaver in line to take the throne.
But… for the first time in my life, in some way I can’t explain, I didn’t feel that Titus was a threat. Or maybe I just didn’t want to believe that he was. Because if the prince of the Eerie was good, then a part of me might actually begin to hope that things can change. And that is almost more painful than believing the only way to save my people is to murder the king and his kin. Killing I can do. Hope is more difficult. And trust…
Trust was impossible. Until Will. Because of him, I opened myself up to his people, his kind. Trust has made me weak. It blinded me to Titus’s true intentions tonight. It persuaded me to see the haughty, misunderstood boy rather than the evil prince from the stories I know all too well. But I was wrong. I shouldn’t have trusted Will, and I shouldn’t have trusted Titus. Both are mistakes I don’t plan on making again.
If I get out of this alive.
“I know the Castors are up to something,” Titus murmurs, drawing back to inspect my face. “You have my word that I will give you a swift death if you just tell me what they’re planning.”
He snaps his fingers, but—thank the Stars—I don’t flinch. I glare up into his sparkling blue eyes, my hatred like a living thing squirming beneath my skin.
Kindness is the great deceiver. I should have known.
“Better yet… Will mentioned you’re rather fond of your family.” He smiles, showing teeth. “You will tell me everything you know about the Order of Hildegarde, or I will tack the bodies of your brothers and sisters to the castle walls.”
I spit in his face. “Bastard.”
He laughs, but his eyes darken. “Sweetheart, I’ve been called a bastard all my life.” He licks his lips, smiling fiendishly. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
My stomach roils. Of all the vile words, I can’t think of one wicked enough to describe him.
He cocks his head and toys with a strand of my hair. “You know,” he says, his voice low, “I could have you executed just for being at the ball tonight. And not just you—Henry Castor should have known better than to link arms with a human girl. He’s been only one kiss away from treason all evening.” He wraps the strand of hair around his finger, drawing closer to my lips with every whispered word. “And Will… do you think he would die protecting your secrets?”
His question is like a knife to my heart. Would he?
Suddenly, Titus’s body tenses, and his breathing becomes shallow. He slowly unwinds the strand of hair, his hand lingering near my neck. As his fingertips graze my pearl earring, a crease forms between his brows. He draws back, inspecting my face, his hardened expression unreadable.
Softly, he asks, “Do you fear death, Aster Oberon?”
I laugh. “There are far worse things than death.”
The corner of his lip twitches, an almost imperceptible smirk. “Torture?”
I think of the band of braided leather secure at my wrist and the bond it represents. Owen was willing to die for his family—for me. He never feared what would happen to him once he faced that final defeat. He was confident he would take his place among the Stars, and that one day, we would all be together again.
Owen dreamed of a better life for us, for our people. A place where we could be safe, happy. The Order believes in a world like the one Owen always dreamed of. If I die protecting even the slightest chance that a world like that could exist, then so be it. At least when I see Owen in the afterlife, we can both have a good laugh about how the boy I was assigned to protect is the same boy who will end my life.
“Tell me what you know, and I’ll let you live,” Titus whispers, his gaze trained on mine with predatory focus. “Your choice.”
My choice. As if any of this is my choice. As if anything has ever been my choice.
“Why are you protecting the Castors?” His knuckles brush my jaw. “They chose you like you were nothing more than a sheep they rescued from the slaughterhouse. You’re nothing to them. Nothing .”
Nothing. He’s right; I’m nothing. No one. If I die, my family will move on. They’ll refuse to even say my name, the way they refuse to say Owen’s. But if I give up the Castors, it would be a significant blow to their cause. To our cause.
Before, if I died in battle, it would mean nothing . Now, it means I will die to protect little Annie, and Henry, whom I never expected to consider my friend; and Killian, who gave me a purpose when I felt like peeling potatoes was all my life had become. I will die protecting a future for Elsie and Albert. I will die protecting Will.
The words that leave my mouth are not easy, but they are true. “Death before disloyalty.”
Titus withdraws his hand, takes a small step back. A broad smile breaks out over his face, illuminating his eyes with some kind of holy blue fire. “I think you mean”—he discards his formal coat, dropping it unceremoniously to the ground, and meets my eyes once more, a tentative curiosity tempering his inexplicable joy as he rolls up his shirtsleeve—“death to the king.”