Suddenly, there is a tug on my collar. Llywelyn is fidgeting with the handle of my leash, wrapping it around his delicate looking hand. He looks up at me and I glare at him. He pouts in return but thankfully unwinds the chain from his palm, slackening the tension and releasing the pull on my collar.
With one last scowl at him, I turn my attention back to the room. Just in time to see two new people arrive. A fey and his human looking pet.
The fey has flame red hair in two long plaits and a majestic set of antlers. If Llywelyn hadn’t told me only royalty could wear antlers, I’d still know this was Prince Tristan. The red hair and the confident posture are more than enough clues.
My attention turns to his pet and my mind stalls for a moment. He is absolutely gorgeous. Tiny and short. All blond hair and large green eyes. Sharp cheekbones and a scowl that does not detract from his beauty.
My briefing simply said Prince Tristan’s pet was called Ollie and that he was an unpredictable wildcard. There was no mention of him being breathtakingly stunning.
No wonder Prince Tristan claimed him, and no wonder Llywelyn challenged his brother for the pet.
My stomach squirms. Okay, now I understand Llywelyn’s whining about the way I look. I don’t look anything like this guy. Or Jamie. I’m not even a muscled beefcake like Blake. I’m a good-looking man, but not in any way that’s exceptional.
Tristan gives his pet’s hand a squeeze. Oh, that’s interesting. My trained eye quickly runs over the prince and his pet again. Yep. They have cleaned and straightened up well, but there are telltale signs.
They were late to the ball because they were just fucking.
And judging by how close they are standing to each other, they are very fond of each other. A happy partnership. Is that why Llywelyn tried to break them up? I can totally see him being that petty and spiteful.
“There is nothing to learn here,” whispers Llywelyn. “We should retire.”
“No,” I hiss back.
Of course he is going to be uncomfortable at being in the same room as Tristan, but he is going to have to man up.
Tristan’s pet sees Llywelyn and his back straightens, and he stares intently. Okay, he clearly doesn’t believe in this resyn stuff. The only person in this whole damn place.
Beside me, Llywelyn squirms. “There is no point in staying.”
“Annoyed that people aren’t fawning over you?” I snap. Because letting him know that I’ve read the true reason he wants to leave, is not a card I want to play just yet.
He sniffs. “That behaviour was always reserved for my brothers.”
“Aww, poor little princeling, no one likes you? I can see why.” I hiss while keeping my eyes focussed on the room.
Llywelyn’s sharp inhale causes me to instinctively look at him. His face is pale and the look in his golden eyes is wounded. Hurt.Lost and lonely, and alarmingly young. He turns away from me to grab yet another drink from the laden tray of a passing server.
I turn back to the room. I’m seeing things. The light in here is all gloomy and atmospheric. Llywelyn is an arrogant ass. He is not going to be upset by my throwaway comment. No matter how drunk he is.
However, it is unsettling to realise that I have no idea how old he is. I’m going to have to ask him later.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him finish his drink. He moves towards a different server, presumably to put down his empty glass and take another. Llywelyn steps right in the path of the fey server. An older looking man with brown hair and very pointy ears. Llywelyn and the servant collide and the tray of red wine spills all over Llywelyn’s white robes, painting them red.
The glasses shatter on the floor and every pair of eyes in the ballroom pause what they were doing to stare. Even the harp music falters.
Llywelyn’s face flushes. His golden eyes blaze with a frightening fury. Lightning fast, he pulls out a dagger from a sheath hidden in his flowing sleeve. His arm slashes across the servant. The servant staggers back, crimson blood spraying from his severed throat. He falls to the ground. Gurgles, and then dies. Eyes turning blank and unseeing.
Everything is red. Wine and blood mingling. My pulse thumping in my ears feels red too.
Everything has happened so quickly, so unexpectedly. I can’t process it. It doesn’t feel real. Did Llywelyn really just murder a servant for spilling wine on him? Are my eyes really telling me the truth?
I’m usually good in a crisis. I’m trained for it and I have plenty of experience, but this has shocked me to the core. My lungs are not moving and my mind is frozen.
Suddenly, the harp music resumes and everyone turns their attention away. Conversations start again. The ballroom fills withthe gentle hum of chatter and the clink of glasses. On the dance floor, people recommence their swirling movements. And just like that, it is like nothing happened.
I stare at the crowd, unbelieving. Uncomprehending. Is it murder that is so unremarkable, or is it this resyn stuff that is so very powerful? Either option is bewildering. None of this is making any sense.
A small horde of servants rush over. Some begin dragging the body away. Others start mopping up all the mess. Blood, wine and shattered glass. The efficient way they are moving is pointing towards casual murder being no big deal.
