Aemon pulls up just a little too close for my comfort, but I refuse to back up.
He folds his arms across his wide chest and looks down his nose at me. “No one leaves the dining table without the permission of the queen,” he says.
“You did.”
Did the corner of his lips just quirk? Nah. Couldn’t have been.
“I was told to get Elsbeth.”
“Well, you got her, so now you can go back,” I say, cocking my head and giving him a sticky-sweet smile.
He scrubs a hand down his face, obviously annoyed with my refusal. “I’m not getting into this with you, witchling—”
I cross my arms, mimicking his stance. “First,” I say, holding up my index finger, “I didn’t ask you to, and second”—two fingers—“the term is magi, not witch or witchling, and third”—three fingers—“I don’t posses any magical abilities, therefore I am neither.”
Aemon purses his lips, his eyes searching my face, as though I’m a cipher he’s trying to decode. “You look like a witch.” He takes a step closer, and this time, I do back up, right into the wall. Eyes pinning me in place, he raises his arms and lays his palms flat against the rough stone on either side of my head, caging me in. My pulse races and my belly’s doing cartwheels, but I’m not sure if it’s out of fear or something else. He gently twists a lock of my hair around his finger, leans in and sniffs it. “You smell like a witch.”
“And what does a witch smell like, exactly?” I manage to say with only a slight tremor to my voice. “The blood of sacrificed infants or mummified cats?”
The corners of his mouth twitch, as though he’s holding back a smile. “You don’t really think I’m just going to give away my secrets, do you?”
I level a flat glare at him. “In other words, you’re full of…” I stop myself before I get into even more trouble for cursing at the lieutenant.
“Shit,” he supplies, those twitchy lips now curling into a full-blown smile. “Can you say the word shit, Katya?”
I read that situation wrong. I let out an exasperated sigh and attempt to angle around him. “I’m just going to go to my room, now.”
“No, you’re not.” He grabs my arm and pushes my sleeve back, revealing the bracelets Leodin warned me not to wear. “Are you still going to tell me you’re not a witch?”
I wrench my arm free. “Any fae can use sythra if they’re taught. Now please let me by.” I shove at his chest, but he’s as immovable as the stone at my back. “Please.”
His eyes search mine for a moment, like he can see straight into my mind. Then he pushes off the wall and takes a couple of steps back, arms swinging at his sides. “I’ll have your chair moved.”
I blink. Was he listening to my conversation with Elsbeth? “What? Where?”
He smirks. “You can sit beside me.”
Oh, joy.
The ridge of my cheek explodes in pain, the force of the strike pitching me sideways. I stumble into the table, knocking over a—thankfully empty—wineglass and sending a stack of papers flying. “You stupid, stupid girl,” Leodin shouts. “What about keeping a low profile did you not understand? Now, you not only got the queen’s attention, but you humiliated me and Duke Berezin with your behavior.”
I straighten and stare him dead in the eye, ignoring the pain in my cheek. “He was trying to touch me—”
“I don’t care if he had his entire fist up your tight little cunt. You smile, sit still and keep your mouth shut. Do you understand me?”
He’s going to hit me again if I don’t answer. I know it, without a doubt, and yet stubborn ass that I am, I grit my teeth and don’t say a word. When the strike comes, it isn’t any less painful for my being prepared. If anything, it’s worse. His knuckles slam into my already battered cheek like a sledgehammer, the pain radiating throughout my head. This time, when I stumble, I don’t catch myself on the table. I careen to the floor, cracking my forearm and hip against the wood. I instinctively curl into a ball just in case he decides he isn’t finished and starts kicking. Getting hit in the face hurts, but getting hit in the stomach… that’s the sort of pain that takes your breath away.
Luckily for me, his tirade is interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Get up,” he hisses. “Don’t embarrass me more than you already have.” I push onto my hands and knees, pausing while a wave of dizziness threatens to take me back down again, then crawl over to the little table and climb into the chair. My entire head is throbbing, but I push past the pain, just like I have so many times before, and raise my head. At least I’m not nauseous. Vomiting and headaches are not what I would call a winning combination. Leodin answers the door, and a few words are exchanged, then the door clicks shut and Leodin returns. He tosses an envelope onto the table in front of me and sags into his chair, his feet thrown out like he’s just so worn out after all the punching.
Asshole.
“It’s a formal invitation to the ball,” he says, even though I didn’t ask. “You’ll need to be fitted for a gown. I’ll send a seamstress up in the morning.” He points his index finger at me, like that’s supposed to be intimidating or something. “You will mingle and listen. See if you can get friendly with some of the visiting magi and lords. I especially want to know if anyone else has any idea what the crown may be up to here.”
I won’t give him the satisfaction of rubbing my sore cheek, instead, choosing to rest my chin in my hand and ask, “What about the royal family?”
“What?”
