Page 104 of Prince of Night and Storm

One day.

Not in a month, or a decade. Not in a century.

But one day.

If I truly am immortal like my mother I have time, and nothing but time, stealth, strategy, plus all the power I can muster will defeat the son of two awake and ruling Ancients.

I need to reach my abyss.

We stare in silence, his expectant gaze patient, amused, that indolent spider watching its fly flail.

Shuddering, I prod myself to focus, and lower my head. “Forgive me, my Prince.” I whisper because I want to scream at being forced to say those words. “I am barely Low Fae, and accustomed to companions of like power.” I moisten my bottom lip, pressing my teeth into it. “I reacted.”

The factual truth is the best public plea for mercy I can offer—even though it makes me sound like some vapid trembling sickeningfragilemortal—and hope it’s enough. He knows we understand each other very well and he won’t believe any show of penitence or submission whatsoever, but the proper forms must be upheld.

Renaud’s curving lips are smeared with my blood as he picks up a brilliant white dinner napkin and binds my injury. He ignores his. It healed in minutes. Mine won't.

“My fierce little warrior,” he says, speaking Ninephene accented Everennesse warmed with rich, affectionate amusement. “I understand you’ve had scant time and interest in pursuing liaisons, either physical or of the heart, outside your limited caste. I’m not entirely displeased, as I wish you to be my own. Of course you are frightened; the gulf of power between us is vast and you’re trained to respond without thought to any encroachment.” He half lids his eyes. “I suppose I did tell you I desire a Consort with talons—perhaps it’s my fault for not being more delicate with so tender a shoot.”

I don't dare respond to the insult, condescension, and unwanted possessiveness in that little speech despite his outward nonchalance. With those delicate verbal slaps he calls me a stupid sheltered jumpy child, weak and too inexperienced to handle so powerful a male, so he’ll graciously dial it down a notch—and his preference is for as malleable a ball of clay as possible, with no competing lovers waiting in the wings he must bother himself to kill.

I’m too worn down for anger. Right now I just want this to be over.

“Prince Renaud,” Baba says. “The Lady of Faronne is weary.”

The webmaster releases my hand and settles back in his chair, regarding me. “Lady Aerinne, you may be excused.”

I push back my chair and stand, step back and sink into a flawless bow, too numb to tremble. Then rise, meet my father’s inscrutable gaze for a brief moment and turn, leaving the courtyard one foot painstakingly in front of the other.

The gaze on my back spurs my steps.

The wildness keens, and the maelstrom roars.

He’d looked into my eyes, and the night I saw in his is thesame I feel in mine. I don’t know if that will make it easier to control me, or harder.

Sovva anfa imra tala’alum la akra baad ne’amra.?1

I trip, right myself. That is—that almost sounds like Darkan’s voice.