Oh fucking hell. This should be a good revelation. My desire for Llywelyn is pure. I’m not attracted to his vulnerability. I’m simply attracted to him, because he is hot. It means I’m not a monster. Well, less of a monster, at least.
But falling in lust during a mission? With the person I’m working with? There is only one word for that, and one word only.
A disaster.
Chapter fourteen
My knees are really starting to kill and my calf muscles are cramping. Maybe it is time to retire? My body certainly is protesting about being put through this shit. Being a secret agent is definitely a young man’s game.
Though usually it doesn’t require kneeling at some jumped-up little twerp’s feet for hours. So I might be fine after this job. It could very well be that it is this mission that is shitty, and not my entire career.
Either way, I should finish the mission, put Llywelyn on the throne, and then get the hell away from him. Then, and only then, should I reevaluate all my life choices. Because thinking clearly around the prince is impossible. There is no point in even attempting it until I’m free of him. Lust has never, ever in the entire history of human civilization, led to good decision making.
I clench my leg muscles, hold it, then release. It gives me a little bit of relief.
Above me, around the table, the fey are getting very drunk. Hopefully, someone will pass out soon and the night will be over. It feels like my little show was hours ago. Since then, the fey nobles have been drinking steadily. I’ve learnt a lot of court gossip, and gained leg cramp. And now I’m so ready for this night to end.
“A wager!” declares Prys. “I grow tired of this drinking game. Let’s liven things up!”
“What did you have in mind?” slurs Lord Gerwyn.
Prys clears his throat. “Whoever loses the next round… has to spread for everyone else.”
Lady Braith chortles with excited glee. She has mentioned several times how much she loves her new strap-on. Gerwyn claps his hands together like an excited toddler.
I risk a peek up. Llywelyn is slumped in his chair. His antlers are not on display, and he is very obviously far more inebriated than anyone else. And he has been losing terribly for the last thirty minutes. Judging by the predatory look in his companions’ eyes, they are fully aware of this, and they have one outcome in mind.
“Are you in, Your Highness?” drawls Prys in a voice that drips sweet venom.
Llywelyn stares at his guests. He blinks slowly. “Yes!”
My heart sinks. For fuck’s sake. Why oh why am I stuck with such an idiot? I swear he doesn’t have a single brain cell in that pretty head of his.
Braith laughs again. Gerwyn sniggers and quickly starts dealing out the cards. Prys’s smile is positively evil. A calculating gleam in his cold black eyes. His skin has a blue tinge to it and his hair is all royal blue and silver. He has to be some cruel ocean creature. A shark or a Killer Whale. Something that plays with its food.
“Are you sure, Prys?” Braith attempts to whisper, but her voice is pretty much at full volume. “He is a prince.”
Prys shrugs. A slow, insidious motion. “He is a resyn,” he says quietly.
Llywelyn is staring at his cards. Concentrating hard. He doesn’t seem to have heard them at all. He lays down his first card and blinks blearily at Prys.
Oh fuck. This isn’t good at all. What the hell am I going to do? Why are the fey so sex-obsessed and perverted? What is wrong with them?
I inhale through my nose and hold the oxygen in my lungs. I need to think. Will it affect the mission if Llywelyn gets railed by these three douchebags? He did agree to it. So maybe it is just my human sensibilities that are alarmed? This could be fine. A normalpart of fey culture. I could be overacting simply because I know Llywelyn’s past, and it is making me feel protective of him.
I exhale slowly. If they fuck him, will these assholes still respect Llywelyn enough to put him on the throne?
Braith squeals in delight. Shit, she won that hand. Prys leans forward and pulls a small, wicked looking dagger from out of his midnight blue sleeve.
My breath hitches. He will not kill Llywelyn. Prys would not find it entertaining. I know this. I need to stay calm.
My eyes widen as he places the tip of his dagger against Llywelyn’s chest. It is taking everything I have to remain motionless and simply observe.
“Another couple of hands, and these will be coming off, Resyn,” he hisses.
Llywelyn flinches at the last word. The blade inches down, slicing through silk and revealing pale skin. Llywelyn stares up at Prys with an eerily blank expression. As if he has shut down. Dissociated.
The knife cuts a little lower. My jaw clenches. Llywelyn is embarrassed about his chest. He sleeps with a heavy nightgown on, and he didn’t let me see him fully naked until I barged in. No one knows he has omega traits. Not even his own family.
