No. She wasn’t here. It wasn’t her. Hope would break what little was left of him.
His Mistress made a disgusted noise. “You always were so brutal. As a contestant in the Consort Tournament, my toy is protected by the truce… just like your Escort in my dungeons.” She sounded pleased with herself. “Now, would you like your Escort to compete for you, Sister? My guards mentioned a broken hand. How unfortunate. Wait, I know! How aboutyouduel my sweet toy? Win, and he’s yours.”
Mistress would let him go? He didn't believe it.
The Queen added, “But you will compete last. I do hope he’s still alive for you by then.”
Ah. The Akerami prince would end him long before the false Anais had her chance. Oddly, the thought brought him peace.
“Until then, you will behave yourself, won’t you, Sister? I think so. Chamberlain! Find an apartment for my dear Anais. One fit for a Queen.”
Her claws stroked his hair as the guards escorted the pretender out of the throne room.
Chapter 23
Anais
Castien had knelt on a pillow beside the throne like a favored dog.
Adorned in red fabric from head to toe, he had stood out. He would wherever he went; that was the point. No one would mistake the Queen's toy. She might as well have pissed on him.
Rage thrummed in her veins as she paced the length of her room. Her fancy cell. The ornate furniture, beautiful paintings, and lace-embroidered drapes were a lie – this was a prison complete with four guards outside her door. Her weapons had been taken for ‘safekeeping’. She was mildly surprised the window wasn't barred.
I love you, Mistress.
Her claws curled.
He wasn’t in his right mind. His eyes had been so empty, his voice too soft. He hadn't sounded like himself at all.
There wasn’t any chance that hewantedto be here. None.
She leaned out the window and inhaled deeply. It had already been late in the day when they had infiltrated the castle. Now it was dark. There didn't appear to be any guards on the ground three stories below. No movement at all.
She could climb down. Her claws tested the stone.
A bit of dirt tumbled down past her face.
She went still.
Faint scrabbling came from above. She ducked inside and grabbed a candle holder.
Darkness slipped into her room, landing softly on its feet and blocking the moonlight. The intruder straightened to his full height.
Breathing a sigh, she set down her implement. It was heavy – gilded iron, likely. Not the worst weapon.
She stepped closer and whispered. “Where were you?”
Vern brushed his hands against his dark leather pants. “There were complications. I see you had your own. Where is Jerome?” Reaching over his back, he unbuckled a sheath and handed her a sword.
Her fingers curled around the grip. A sword was a much better weapon than a candle holder. “In the dungeons. He was caught. What complications?”
Her father glanced outside, then closed the window and scanned her room. “The duchess sent a message out. I was lucky to intercept it. I had to return and move everyone out of the tavern.”
She set the sword against a table and crossed her arms. “Isabel is not important. The priority is Castien.”
His gaze fixed on her. “Is Pelios also unimportant? Zara and her brother? Anais, you shouldn't have come. Is Jerome alive?”
She turned her head to the side. “He's fine. A broken hand.”
