I glare at him.
He swallows and starts again. “I challenged Tristan to a duel for ownership of his pet, because his pet insulted me. I lost. Tristan decided to make a resyn of me and not banish me.”
The prince’s elegant hand runs through his hair. His gaze lowers again. “He cut off my hair,” he whispers.
I blink. And blink again. I’m seeing things. He ran his hand through his hair with no obstruction. Cold nausea rolls my stomach.
“Where are your antlers!” I snap.
I thought they were real, a natural part of him, and worse than that mistake, I did not see him take them off. I am far too observant to miss something like that. But the evidence is before my eyes. Short choppy golden hair. Pointy ears. Absolutely no horns.
He flinches slightly and then lifts up his chin. “I do not feel like manifesting them right now.”
I slowly shake my head. Visions of grabbing the prince by his slender shoulders and shaking him, are filling my mind.
“Explain,” I somehow manage to grind out.
“Only members of the royal family are allowed to display their horns. Some other fey may have them but are not permitted to wear them. However,” he pauses and shrugs. “They take energy to manifest. When in my own rooms, I choose not to.”
My eyes narrow. “You had them earlier, when you were playing cards.”
The prince’s generous lips thin into a stubborn line. Fine. Whatever. I’ll get to the bottom of it another time. In the grand scheme of things, I doubt it is important.
I take a deep breath. “How to you expect to gather enough followers to overthrow your brother, when no one will even fucking look at you!”
All his muscles twitch, his entire body leans away from me, but the prince holds his ground. It is almost impressive.
“My hair will grow,” he says haughtily.
I stare at him for long, incredulous minutes. Then I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose.
This really is the worst mission of my entire career. It is only the first day and I already can’t wait for it to be over.
Chapter four
Somehow, I’ve made it to bedtime without throttling the prince. I spent the evening grilling him on the finer details of fey culture and hierarchy. Making sure everything the Agency gave me is accurate and up to date. Tomorrow, I will start on a thorough who’s who of the fey court.
But that’s enough for one day. I’m exhausted. The prince has fine lines around his eyes where his eyelids are drooping. If he was human, I’d say he was pretty beat too. But he is not human and I can’t afford to make assumptions. It is bloody infuriating.
He wanders off to get ready for bed. Tinker-boy appears and shows me to a modern bathroom complete with a normal, if a little fancy shower. Thank fuck. I’ve had all of the strangeness I can cope with.
The servant quickly helps me to undress, then he runs off and leaves me to it.
I shower swiftly. I am far too on edge to relax, so a simple, quick clean it is. As I step out, I find a fluffy towel and a pair of deep purple silk pyjama trousers. The fey really do like opulence. Not that I am complaining.
I dry off, put the soft trousers on and head for Llywelyn’s bedchamber.
It’s empty. Quiet. A huge four-poster swarming with golden quilts and white furs. I quickly scan the rest of the room. There is no cot, no crappy small bed. Not even a sofa. This bastard better not expect me to sleep on the floor.
As if summoned by my thoughts, the prince swans into his bedroom. His golden hair is damp and looks as if it has been vigorously brushed. The rest of the prince is covered in a thick white linen nightgown. The thing falls all the way to his toes, and cuffs at his delicate wrists.
I raise an eyebrow. It looks like something a Victorian maiden would wear. Or a virgin sacrifice.
“Where do you expect me to sleep?” I snarl.
Llywelyn blinks his long lashes. “In the bed?”
All I can do is stare.
