These fucking fey are unbelievable. They are behaving as if Llywelyn’s outburst never happened.
Selwyn speaks so softly that I only just hear him. “We need to talk about Prys.”
“Why?” snaps Llywelyn without looking up.
“Because I’ve discovered that he is the poisoner you intercepted.”
Someone’s spoon clangs loudly. Dropped harshly into a bowl. It takes me a moment to realise it’s mine.
I look up and find the princes staring intensely at each other.
“And the intended target was Rhydian.”
Blindly, I reach for my wine. It is hard to get it to my lips because I am shaking so much. Eventually I manage it and I drain my glass.
Fucking hell.
I have enough puzzle pieces to see the picture, and it is making me sick. Prys is working on the same plan that I am.
Get rid of Rhydian. Replace him with Llywelyn.
That’s why Prys has been wooing Llywelyn. He wants his very own perfect puppet prince.
I pour myself some more wine.
This should be good news. I should be ecstatic. I should team up with Prys and work together on our shared goal. And then, once successful, get rid of him. Llywelyn is my puppet prince, no one else’s.
But the mere thought of it is making me sick. My skin is itching with disgust. Even though this reaction is completely irrational.
Oh my fucking god. What am I going to do? For the first time in my life, I’m worried about my professionalism.
I don’t think I can do this.
Chapter thirty-three
Leaving our rooms feels awful. I’m walking behind Llywelyn while fully sulking like a child. I’ve caught his aversion to leaving his sanctuary. But it is Beltaine. A big celebration in the fey calendar and we can’t stay hiding.
As I walk through the palace, my mind is still lingering. It’s still in bed with Llywelyn. Stroking his antlers while he blows me and cums all over himself. My focus is fixated on pondering what positions will enable me to rail him hard while pulling on his antlers.
It is the only thing I want to be doing. I don’t want to go to a party. I have no interest in plotting and scheming and spying. And I especially have no wish to be working on a way to approach Prys with the offer of an alliance.
A shiver races down my spine. I use the chill to force my mind to concentrate. I need clarity. Here and now are the only things that matter. One step at a time.
The crowds thicken as we get closer to our destination. I watch people’s eyes slide off Llywelyn and it makes me want to throw things. He is still their prince. He deserves better.
The hallway merges into a tunnel carved of stone. My heart rate increases as my mind rejects what it is seeing.
Llywelyn doesn’t pause, and in the midst of a small crowd, we swarm through the tunnel and out into a space that shouldn’t exist. It feels vast, even though I can see the shimmering, transparent outlines of walls. Walls that look like BuckinghamPalace. Through them, is a dark endless wood. It is as if we are half in Buckingham Palace and half somewhere else.
The floor is green grass and moss. Toadstools and rocks. A forest floor.
In the middle of the room that is not a room, is a full-sized stone circle of grey sarsen. Standing proud in the middle of a clearing in the not-woods.
I look up and all I can see is a starry sky where the ceiling should be. I bite back my petrified whimper. The fey are so immensely powerful. No wonder they conquered us almost idly. We can never defeat them. We can barely comprehend them.
Llywelyn as our benevolent puppet prince, really is the best we can hope for.
I watch in a daze as fey whoop and trill. They light flaming torches and fill the stone circle with sinuous dancing. Drums beat and fiddles play.
