I’m lost for words, I really am. I don’t even know what expression is on my face.
Llywelyn looks at me. “I will relish the attention and the glory. I want the glory,” he insists.
I give a vague nod, and it seems to assure him that he has convinced me. He turns his attention to his breakfast. Dismissing my presence utterly, as only someone used to being constantly waited on hand and foot is capable of.
I sit quietly and watch him. I understand him now. Better than he knows himself. He doesn’t want glory. Or flattery and favours and shallow attention.
He is desperate to be included and seen. He is craving a sense of belonging. He is longing for a chance to prove himself worthy.
Llywelyn doesn’t want power.
He just wants to be loved.
Chapter thirteen
If I were a reasonable man, I wouldn’t be grumbling about kneeling here at the fey’s feet while they play cards on the table. Because it is a situation entirely of my own making.
Nevermind my career choices, inviting people to Llywelyn’s rooms for games was all my idea. He wasn’t all that happy about it, but he saw the sense of gathering potential supporters somewhere they could talk freely, in addition to being able to talk to him at all.
My cunning plan is working. Three fey nobles are here, smoking hookah pipes, playing and talking. Acting as if they have forgotten the prince’s resyn status. And I’m right here, listening to it all. So being disgruntled about my stupid, wounded pride is childish. It is only kneeling. It doesn’t really mean anything.
“Let’s make this more fun by adding a drinking game!” declares Earl Prys Y Aydanogi.
The other two nobles cheer. My jaw clenches. Alcohol and Llywelyn are not a great combination. I highly suspect he has a problem. But on the other hand, loosened tongues will benefit me greatly.
Llywelyn snaps his fingers. I swear I feel the sound in my stomach. Even though it is not directed at me.
A few moments later, Tae hurries over with a tray of drinks. Three large earthenware bottles and four sparkling glasses.
He slides the tray onto the table and scurries away. As I watch his damaged wing flutter with the speed of his departure, I realise that I’ve been holding my breath. Needlessly, it seems. The assholes at the table didn’t pay Tae any attention at all. His servitude madehim invisible. Which is a whole lot better than being tormented for entertainment.
It still rankles. Despite the fact I can’t hand on heart swear that I’ve fully acknowledged and noticed every single person who has ever served my table, or made me a drink, or checked out my shopping. Apparently, I’m a hypocrite, and when I’m on the other side, it pokes at my sense of fairness. I’m beginning to wonder if my psych eval was correct and if I am the right man for this job. Though, it is too late now. I’m here and there is nothing that can be done about that.
I bite back my sigh and keep my head down. The sounds of drinks being poured is strangely soothing. Familiarity, I guess. A normal, everyday sound in a place that is neither.
I focus on it. Then I focus on the chatter that follows, while I tune everything else out, even the ache in my knees.
As I listen, I form opinions. Earl Prys is a jerk. New to court, having recently crossed through the portals, he is the type of narcissistic asshole that can pull people in with his false charisma. Llywelyn certainly doesn’t seem to be immune to it. I suspect Prys is everything he wishes he could be. Popular and widely adored.
Lord Gerwyn and Lady Braith seem to be nothing more than Prys’s sycophants. Not a single thought of their own in either of their heads. They do, however, both appear to be incredibly wealthy. Usurping a throne is expensive work, so they are useful people to have on board.
“Is it true that humans can pleasure themselves?” drawls Prys.
All my musing and mental note taking grinds to a halt. My awareness has narrowed to this precise moment. I can hear my unsteady breathing and feel the stretch of the silk robes over my knees. I didn’t want them to notice me.
“It’s true,” says Llywelyn smugly.
There is a bit of fluff on the otherwise perfect sky blue rug I’m kneeling on. A white bit of fluff, just under the table. I stare at itintently. My stomach is churning. I have a very bad feeling about this.
“May we see a demonstration?” Prys purrs.
Gerwyn and Braith titter. My heart thumps against my ribcage. Any minute now, Llywelyn is going to voice his excuse. Something like, ‘I don’t like to share.’ It’s fine. It is going to be fine.
“Of course,” Llywelyn says sweetly.
My head snaps up. His golden eyes meet mine calmly. No regret. No remorse. No apology. His pink lips are curled upwards in a faint hint of a smirk.
Motherfucker.
