They always do.
As the door slams behind him, the keys sliding the lock into place, I carefully rearrange myself until I can rest my head back against the wall.
And I start counting again.
2 – Silas
“Will you fuckingstop?”
I slide Rafe an irritated glance, and he grimaces, pausing the incessant humming at last. “You know how much I hate this place.”
Kit is silent beside him, but I can sense his agreement as we head up the steep steps to the gleaming white palace that towers above us in a collection of elegant towers. The jewel in the crown of Sorelle.
He despises the people inside of this place even more than Rafe does. Pampered, cooing, overblown fucking peacocks, the lot of them.
But that’s exactly how we prefer it. Empty-headed. Spineless. Greedy. Ripe for manipulation.
A perfect arrangement, really. And this way, everyone gets what they want.
As we reach the ornate double doors, held open by empty-faced puppet guards on either side, we walk straight through. Nobody stops us. The guards pale, the courtiers in their puffed-up fancy outfits spinning on their heels and swiftly moving in the opposite direction.
Our reputation precedes us. Only a single footman has the courage to walk up to us. “Th-this way, my lords.”
My lords. It’s an honorific that doesn’t belong to us. None of us are part of the court – by design, not be lack of opportunity. The royal family would gift us any title we wanted if we demanded it.
Possibly even the crown itself. After all, they wouldn’t be able to hold onto it without our money propping them up.
Whilst Crispin and his frail, aging parents might have the royal blood, it’s the Tate brothers who hold the royal purse strings - and every single person under thisveryexpensive roof knows it. And given recent events, it’s time for them to have a little reminder of exactly what happens if they try to take advantage of our…. generosity.
We stalk down the opulent hall, the ruby red carpet runner soft beneath my black leather shoes. The footman scurries ahead of us, occasionally twisting his head back to make sure we’re still following. Probably hoping we’re not.
Rafe stretches his lips into a wide grin as he looks back again. The man blanches, picking up speed to knock at a large set of carved double doors. He laughs softly beside me.
“The Tate brothers, Your Highness.”
The scrambling from inside makes the footman glance back at us warily. Crispin clearly has company.
We wait in silence, and Rafe begins to tap his foot on the floor. I wonder if the footman will wet himself before or after he leaves us, but then a voice calls out.
The man’s sigh of relief is audible as we pass him.
Crispin leans back in his chair as he watches us enter, clearly trying to give off a nonchalant vibe as he slouches to the side,one hand dangling off the arm of the chair, the other running through his hair as he yawns.
The effect of the debonair, carefree prince is somewhat ruined when Kit slides out the chair directly beside him, slipping into it. Crispin blanches, straightening abruptly as he slides mildly panicked glances towards my brother.
“The wonderful Tate brothers.” Crispin smiles weakly, although his gaze keeps slipping back to Kit. My brother pulls out a knife, nonchalantly beginning a game where he splays his hand on the antique table and begins deftly stabbing into the small spaces between his fingers.
Kit has never needed to be the loudest in a room to prove his point.
Crispin swallows. “I’ll admit that I’m surprised to see you here – and so… sosoonafter your last visit. What can I help you with?”
Rafe leans forward. “Areyou surprised to see us, Crispy? Really?”
Crispin flushes at the nickname. “Iamthe Crown Prince, Rafael. At least try to act like it.”
Everybody stills. The silence stretches out.
Crispin’s mouth drops open. His eyes widen, and he gawks at us as if he can’t believe the words that came out of his mouth. We watch as he fumbles out an apology.
