Chapter 24
Chapter
Twenty-Four
RUN, AND I WILL GIVE CHASE
“ A t the White Square,” I say quietly, “you paid for touching me without my leave.”
I release his wrist and he lowers it to his side, fingers folding into a loose curl.
“Ah. Was I the only one who paid a price.”
Here is where his mercurial nature shows through. Hot, then cold. Cruel, then almost gentle. Painfully, disturbingly, intimate. Then the distance of High Court formality.
His eyes an endless night I can lose myself in.
Anfa sara, Malisse, sa ni tala'vesh. Sovva la anfa, sa anfa nira ni baad. ? 1
Darkan?
The whisper was Ninephene. I can catch one basic word out of three rather than five now. After Danon was taken I studied, but the language primers we have are basic.
It’s an interesting oversight for a city with a renown University, whose Prince is a scion of Ninephe’s ruling family.
. . .I don't know what I was thinking making a Vow in Ninephene.
Thinking? Darkan's tone is acerbic as usual, though closer to the exasperated side of the spectrum. I don't believe we understand that word in the same fashion.
“Lord étienne, I'm gratified you accepted my invitation,” the Prince says. It’s a smooth voice, pitched low, adorned with that faint accent of his homeland. “You, and your daughter.”
As if we had a choice.
I'd burned his letter. I'd burned his letter dreaming it was his palace.
My brother’s gonna kick your ass! my inner 13-year-old screams.
Prince Renaud’s swirling eyes stop, and flare.
I tamp the 13-year-old down.
“I'm pleased to have accepted it,” my father replies, also smooth, but warm. A diplomat's voice. “I'm equally pleased to present my daughter, Lady Aerinne, Heir Presumptive of House Faronne.”
Because I know him, I hear the thread of hope in his voice. My father wants peace; he'll be devastated when I confess the Vow tightening around my neck.
The most incompetent, foolish Vow I have ever had the displeasure of witnessing, Darkan says, as if I wasn’t already well aware of his opinion.
As if he ever keeps his opinions to himself.
“I am delighted to formally meet you, Lady Aerinne.”
I doubt that. I doubt that very much. It can't be a blatant lie, but trust a High Fae to drive a semi through a loophole the size of a pinprick. But he’s right—knocking me around a battlefield then showing up unannounced at my house in the morning doesn't qualify as a formal introduction.
“We're beyond the use of my title,” I say. “Considering your House tried to have me killed at least three times that I know of.”
A slight narrowing of his eyes. The silence of a male leashing a temper rarely provoked because no one dares defiance.
“Ah.” I keep my voice polite. “Was it unmannerly to make mention?”
Congratulations, Darkan says, managing to sound both weary and sour, you opened your mouth, with predictable diplomacy. Which is to say, none.
They did not train the Mad Dog of Faronne for diplomacy .
They barely trained me for self-preservation.
You must learn, Aerinne. I will not always save you from yourself.
You are me.
Think that if it comforts you.
The dark tone of his mental voice hints at secrets I fear, threads I shy from pulling. I don't want to unravel the carefully woven cloak of comfort he offers only to find it conceals a monster. Or worse, a lie.
“Indeed,” House Montague's High Lord says, the caress in his voice silk and dripping candle wax. “You may address me as Renaud.”
My body clenches at that voice and I mentally recoil. It’s a physiological reaction; it means nothing. Nothing.
But my heartbeat lurches into a half-panicked gallop. “No thanks. Though if you invite me to address you as?—”
“My daughter is honored,” Baba says. His smile is pleasant, his glance at me not so much.
Belatedly, I process the dubious. . .what’s the word Baba forced from his too human throat? Yes, honor. The dubious honor the Prince bestows on me, to use his name as if we're equals. Or intimates.
It's a small, stinging punishment, like an open palmed slap. The High Court will wonder at our relationship now if word of his morning call hasn’t circulated—I’m not that optimistic.
He’s sicced every Fae with any political power and ambition in Everenne on me, certainly the ones of high rank who’ve ignored me until now.
We’re going to have to feed them when they come to call.
This gutter born bastard.
The term is incorrect. Darkan’s chill, almost offended if I didn’t damn well know better, mental tone arrests my attention.
He is a younger son of two Ancients, Nayya Gravvanne called Gravenrose, and Assariel Temthrennes called Stormthrone, who are of the highest lineage and most assuredly bound in ways far beyond a messy halfling toddler’s meager comprehension.
I didn’t mean bastard in its literal definition, Dark angel. It’s pejorative. But it begs another series of questions. Why is Nora afraid of the Temthrennes? Other than the usual reasons. The fear seems deeper.
The Temthrennes abjure chaos. They are its wardens; they husband and contain it.
Lovely. The origin of every dictator ever. My inappropriate not-humor wags its tail again. Oh, well, that’s not great, since I am chaos.
Indeed. Perhaps you are fated for the Prince then.
Wow. What did I do to piss you off this week.
He scoffs.
“She doesn’t appear appreciative of the honor, father of Aerinne,”? 2 the Prince remarks, “and I don’t believe we have her full attention.”
The thread of cruel mischief in his voice reminds me of Darkan plucking metaphoric wings from my back when he's in a mood.
I sink into a curtsy to avoid having to speak , and hold the obeisance steady, neck bent, jaw and abdomen clenched.
“Ah. Perhaps your gratitude is a lesson for the Court. Observe, all, how gracefully she bends.”
Almost I feel the brush of fingers on the back of my head, and stiffen.
“Rise.”
I obey, and brace not to respond to the mocking amusement in his gaze.
He shifts that gaze to my father. “May I take your daughter in the dance?”
Those are the wrong words and he is clearly provoking me.
Another punishment. Another wing ripped from my back. The normal verbiage would be, “may I ask your daughter for this dance?”
“I am right here, Prince, and if it’s permission you need, it’s mine. Speak to me with some respect, and I may yet grant it.”
My father widens his eyes the way he does when he wants to slam them shut and go bury himself in his darkened office for hours. I'll owe Baba several apologies for breaking my promise to restrain my natural impulses. In my defense. . .the Prince is goading me.
Perceptive. Darkan’s murmur holds amusement along with an edge of patronizing contempt. But you allow it, and who can resist such low hanging fruit. Don’t be so simple to pluck.
There are days I wish I could yank you out of my head and show you simple.
You will soon be offered your chance, halfling, he croons.
The Prince is staring at me, one winged brow ever so slightly raised. On a face that holds all the expression of an iceberg, it’s almost like over emoting.
“Lady Aerinne, will you honor me with a dance?” He uses the same flat, sarcastic tone I do when I ask Arddie “Really?”
I mimic his raised brow. I must die anyway, may as well go out in style. “I believe I’ll accept to incentivize future good behavior. It’s also how one trains canines. First give a firm instruction, then a treat when they obey. Bad boys get spanks, however, not treats.”
He tilts his head and his lips spread in a slow, edged smile. He holds my gaze and his silence—only the powerless need use words—reminds me it will not go well if he chooses to take offense.
However, he has decided to be amused.
But do not dangerously presume.
He offers a hand, a glint of malevolence back in his eyes. “I will keep that in mind, Aerinne, though you are delightfully na?ve if you believe the boy would choose to be good, faced with such a reward for disobedience.”
I don’t think anyone is breathing, and the Prince. . .his skin is white, smooth as marble, and as his eyes swirl blue, then pale gray like mist?—
An icepick pang in my temple—the misty place. . .
. . .white stones, scarlet blood turning black under the half moon, shrieking wyverns dragged from the sky by the power of one male. The flash of a silver blade, and moonstone eyes boring into mine. Black-and-gold scaled arms trapping me against a broad chest ? —
Prince Renaud's personal colors are white-and-silver. Why am I remembering black-and-gold?
Sliding my fingers onto his palm, I almost jerk when crackling energy sears the skin where we touch. Like electric static, but ten times more painful.
His fingers wrap around my hand, a searing, stabilizing pressure. An innocent touch, but there's nothing innocent about the male at my side, nothing casual in the intertwining of our fingers or how he pulls me close to his side as we walk. It's intimate, disturbingly intimate.
“You will enjoy yourself in my arms,” he says. “Montague warriors train to dance as fiercely as they train to kill.”
Talk about low hanging fruit. “Then it's a wonder House Montague manages to reproduce at all.”
His hand squeezes mine, but I think he's still choosing to find me funny. No male has ever pulled me with such casual command against his body. It’s an insult, as if I have no power to stop the uninvited touch, and a threat—because I don’t.
I'm certain he would consider his attention an honor rather than an insult, Darkan says.
I cannot believe you are me.
Your better, wiser, half. Not the half that misthinks Danon can, in your base vernacular, kick the Prince’s ass.
Renaud leads me down another flowered forest path, the courtiers falling behind us in procession. An early evening breeze lifts notes of lavender and smoke into the air. The musicians, settled somewhere discreet, begin a song, strings mixed with a resonant drum.
He stops in the center of a stone clearing big enough for dancing, releasing my arm only to slide his hand around my back and settle on the curve of my hip. Light, intimate.
I try to pull back.
And then not light at all.
His eyes flare. “You fail to understand you are mine. After tonight, you will.”
Possessiveness, in the bite of his long sharp nails. If hunger shows nowhere else, his tell is in the strength of his fingers on my hip .
I tense and those nails dig in.
“Do not,” he says, “deny me.”
“You have no right. None, other than the rights of a bully.”
This is beyond infuriating, beyond disrespect, and what’s worse—that involuntary physiological response that shouldn’t exist. I hate myself sometimes. I’m confused by myself even more.
“You made your choice. I accepted your offer.”
“I’ve offered nothing other than to abide by the terms of a ceasefire.” Though technically I never said those exact words either.
“You have a mortal memory, Aerinne, and I’m disinclined to. . .jog it.”
I stiffen, battling the instinct to tear myself out of his arms—and the instinct to go for my blade.
“I’m not yours, Prince.”
A flash of blue in the moonstone eyes. He lowers his mouth to my ear. “Allow me to repeat my warning. Do not deny me.”
Nasha baad ni. ? 3
“If I do, Prince?”
“Run, and I will give chase, my halfling.”
Keth'malar ni rasha anfa, anfa tala'kem, Malisse ni. ? 4
His fingers tighten.
My aunt is right.
1 ? “You called, Princess, and I woke. I came to you, and you push me away.” We don’t think Aerinne knows “Malisse” means Princess.
She’s probably interpreting it as “Lady” which would make sense.
We don't think she's quite used to how the Ninephene language in particular uses inflection to change the meaning of a word. Everennesse is based on an Avallonnian dialect of Ninephene, so it does the same thing, but not to the same extent, and Everennesse has also been mixed with French and English over the years. It’s why Aerinne knows just enough Ninephene to get in trouble.
2 ? Ah. . .the pandering begins. The Prince is not above flattery, if it serves his purpose, or ingratiating himself.
3 ? “Do not run from me.” It’s a warning, not a command.
4 ? “When I catch you, you will kneel, my Princess.” The word “kneel” here has an erotic connotation, ICYMI. He's not talking about bowing before his authority as the Prince.