I don’t know what they will be for me, but when I look in his eyes, I wonder if I’m lying to myself.
I wonder if I already know.
This can’t be. No.
As if in response to my silent denial, or maybe it’s written on my face, he lifts the hand resting idly on his sword hilt. Slowly, as if stalking a skittish beast, the very tips of those fingers brush along my cheekbone.
The lightest touch. It burns, but not from physical pain. The second he’s stolen without permission, the bitter reality of droit du seigneur. “You presume,” I say.
Why? I don’t ask. I don’t like the weakness inherent in the question.
“Yes.”
Nothing else. Just that. Yes.
I don’t like any male touching me without permission; it’s always a power flex, a game of dominance. I should smack his hand away, but there's something about staring into those moonstone eyes that shrivels temper, makes defiance petty. I still recognize a stronger predator, and hold still.
For now.
But those fingers curl inward, and he lowers the hand back to his sword hilt.
“I'll extract the price of that touch today,” I say. Quietly, because there's not a sound in the square other than that made by horses or birds. Even the wind holds its breath.
“Nothing worth taking is without cost, Lady. Remember.”
We stare at each other.
“Is this what you want?” the Prince of Everenne says.
Idespise. That. Question.
“There are many things I want, and many I don’t,” I say. “There are times I don’t have the choice between either.”
It’s too reasonable, and too late. The Houses could have ended the internecine warfare years ago if we'd battled it out in open combat rather than endless cycles of petty ambushes and retaliations—or, I concede, diplomacy. But then we would’ve had to find something else to spend our endless time on.
In the chill of the dimming spring day, Renaud's blue-under-sunlight hair moves in a breeze as he gives me time to reflect. He has nothing but time, after all. Well, so do I, but Low Fae tend to die younger.
I look into swirling eyes and wonder how much of his consciousness is present. Eyes the color of broken glass, like a shattered mirror, or a shattered mind.
“If you ask it, for you, I will extend my mercy to the rabble,” he says, his deep voice quiet. “I will offer you. . .some. . .choice.”
It’s lost the wintry, sepulchral quality of the other day, but I shiver nonetheless. He possesses the emotion of a corpse, though his skin color has deepened a smidgen from its sunless hue.
“I recall the historical examples of your mercy.” Especially since I'd jumped off my high ignorant horse and done a bit of bedtime reading. “So. . .no thanks.”
The magic of the Vow I made slithers round my throat, then settles. But that slight movement is enough to remind me, as if I'd forgotten. I must kill this male or die myself. Perhaps not now, but soon enough if I fail.
“You understand you will die if you face me head-on in battle? Defiance is futile.”
Okay, Borg. “We're not afraid to die.” Maybe if I say it enough times. . .
“For what?”
I rock back on my heels. “Is that a serious question?”
“Quite. You are young, little halfling. For what do you fight? You spend your power, and your attention, unwisely, when you should hoard it.”
My throat closes on my rage—an emotion always close at hand. “You named my mother. You know why I fight.”
