“But tell me, who succeeded where he failed?” A split-second flash of something. . .feral. . .in the Prince's eyes.
“Are you inquiring about my body count?” I ask in American English, because “body count” in Everennesse means something far more literal, and far more bloody.
“It is rather high, Maitu.” Baba gives a pleasant smile. No threats here folks. None at all. “The city well knows how decisively Faronnesse respond when threatened.”
The Prince places a piece of bread in his mouth as if someone reminded him this is what one does at a banquet. He barely eats, so why bother with the pretense?
“I'm more interested in names,” he says, a touch too casual, almost bored.
Riiiiiight.
I wish I could answer his questions with silence instead of this perversion of light bantering between frenemies—but if I don't engage he'll escalate his attempts to draw me out, and I don't want to know what escalation looks like from this male.
“I don’t kiss and tell.” Drip.
“Nor should you,” Baba says. “Despite my decades in Everenne—and the influence of your beloved mother—youknow your old father still believes such things should remain private between consenting adults.”
“Hmm.” Renaud tilts his head at him then slides his gaze to me. “Dare I inquire about age twenty? Or is that too close to twenty-one? You seem to dislike that year. Curious.”
He can't know. He can't. What kind of father—from all accounts he was a decent one, but then when did Embriel ever challenge him?—would taunt someone over his son's murder?
No, he must've simply picked up on my unease and is toying with me.
We need a change of subject. Fast. “Is this a kink? Torturing your captive with banal small talk?”
A thin black brow lifts, familiar subtle mockery in the arch. “I am pleased to reveal my desires if you are minded to offer yours. Perhaps we will discover common ground.”
No doubt from his voice, from his eyes, that such common ground will be neither platonic nor philosophical.
Drip.
“My favorite involves the blood of my enemies.” I’m proud this is the sweetest my voice has sounded in my life to date, though my life will admittedly be shorter than expected.
My father closes his eyes.He’s begging for it,I want to snap. The Prince weaves silken strands that entangle me the more I struggle, he the hungry spider in the center of his masterful web.
Blue eyes glint in a still too pale face as an evening breeze sighs through his hair, his scent a taunt. “A commonality, though I find taking the blood of a willing companion more to my taste. But perhaps such shared interests are to be indulgedunrestrained in a more private locale. Unless it’s an audience you crave, my Lady, though I never did like to share.”
Baba’s mask slips; his eyes snap open and helooksat the Prince. It isn’t friendly. He recovers a second later.
Drip.
This is. . .flirting. Sitting across from an enemy, trading quips of blood and death, is an Old One's idea offlirting.
Nora did warn me.
I told Baba to leave me home. The invitation was addressed to me but. . .details. As a half-human, I could have pled illness. The plague used to be a thing.
Drawing breath to retort, I instead hold back. It’s a catch-22; allowing him to draw me out like this plays right into his hands. Despite what Darkan says, I am more and more convinced telling the Prince about Embriel would be a mistake. It won’t be an opportunity for honesty, bonding, mutual absolution.
I’d be handing him a weapon with no expiration date to use against me. A powerful weapon to justify much more than feeling up my skirt without consent. Anything he does to me, all he must say in response is “how is this worse than the murder of my only—noncombatant—son?”
Doubtless he wouldn’t use such civilized words.
I’d be a fool to tell him. Honesty is not always the wiser course.
The Prince is determined to punish good behavior as well as bad. He claims my clenched fingers, lifting them slowly to his lips, discretion apparently beneath his dignity. Who really has an audience kink, please stand up.
I snatch my hand away. He catches and presses it against the table, under his own—as if it's our bodies, and his bed.
