I’ve had enough.
Before he can completely sour the mood, I shoot him my best menacing glare.
It lands.
Filip’s eyes, once so full of affection, are tired and uneasy, darting to meet mine across the oval table.
“Not another word,” I say, noting the hardening shadow in his gaze. He survived, but in his mind, he could’ve very well died with the rest of them.
I mirror the sentiment.
No one warns you about the force of grief until it hits you, like the very first blast of magic. Before it touched me, I thought grief was just sadness. A season. A phase. Something to get through.
But now? Now I know it’s a living parasite, clinging to me, eating away every good memory I have.
And the only way to pluck that worm out of my system?
Death. The sweet mercy of rest.
Only fools try to heal.
No one can blame me for tearing through my coins like greased lightning. Distractions are the only things that stop me from jumping off another cliff, or reopening my wrists with iron, praying to Gorok for mercy.
Sex helps. Fae wine too.
I lift the glass again, letting the remaining wine slide down my throat, while I keep holding his stare with the unyielding resolve drilled into me from the time I was still a pup.
Uncle Filip’s weathered face tightens, swollen and tense, yet he lowers his eyes, hiding whatever thought flickers there.
Good.
“You said you’d sort it out,” I say, finishing the glass. “So do it.”
I didn’t come to this pompous valley of summer houses for a fancy dinner. I have expenses: Fae wine, Curse Dice debts, food that doesn’t make me gag, clothes I’m not ashamed to be seen in, and other fancy shit.
If I don’t pay my debts, not even my heritage will grant me entry to another betting shop, and I crave that vicious game—the thrill of teetering between victory and my own undoing.
Even if no one dares call me out, I’m not about to make my already tarnished reputation any worse by skipping what I owe.
I need those coins. And Uncle Filip’s the best Fae to navigate the bureaucratic sewer between me and my birthright.
He reaches for a jug to refill our glasses. “I will. But eat first.” His eyes drift to my barely touched plate.
I sigh and reach for one of the cut pieces. The moment the buttery flavour hits my tongue, I dig in like a savage. Manners be damned.Two years outside the Capital, and I eat like I’ve never been trained to lift a fork properly.
Travesty.
Uncle Filip’s thin lips curve. “I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you doing, child?”
“Fine.”
How the hell does he think I’m doing?
His bushy brows snap together and I can already feel the question coming.
“Lord Navatian sent an orb,” he says, and I can’t stop my eyes from rolling. “You haven’t returned to Santorili’s court since the day of the mating ceremony. Where exactly are you staying?”
Of course Jestin told on me. Messenger orbs were the latest fashionable nuisance: glowing spheres bound to names and blood traces, capable of seeking their target across realms. One may contact any who has pledged their name and a vial of their blood to the registry in Tricity. Even the Argos ghouls have been accepted into the network.
