He pierces me with a cold look, and from my place on the ground, I take him in. The fitted lines of his leather jacket. The deep cut of his raven-black tunic. The copper embroidery in the silk. He looks nearly whole again. Farther from death’s door than he appeared when he brought me here. How many souls were lost to achieve that sort of healing?
Hands twisting in his pockets, he jerks his head at the guard and Bronwyn, dismissing them. Without a second look at me, they head to the stairwell, though I know this is not the last I’ve seen of Bron.
Once they’re gone, the prince strolls to the bars between us and leans his shoulder against the iron. “I have no problem persuading people to spend time with me,” he says. “You of all people should know that.”
Only four torches illuminate the dungeon. The warm light softens the harshness of the small prison, casting the prince’s scarred face half in shadow. A face I once admired while drunk on the Eastland Territories’ renowned black wine and my fair share of feverish kisses in the late hours of a summer night.
The distant memory of that visit, of being with him—and remembering how much I liked it—makes me nauseated.
“That was thirty years ago,” I tell him. “When you weren’t such a despicable, soul-sucking louse. Just a handsome prince. Which I rather liked.”
He smirks. “Speaking of liking things. Do you like your temporary home?”
Home? My cell is barren. They’ve given me no chair, no bed, no blanket. Just a few of the luxuries granted to the dead woman before she arrived. Servants flocked into the dungeon and filled the neighboring cell with a narrow brass bed, fresh linens, a regal, high-backed purple velvet chair, a colorful handwoven rug, and even a dainty mirror, basin, and ewer.
A cell fit for a princess. Not a decayed carcass.
Who she might’ve been and why she’s here, I can’t gather. But given that the prince has ties to the Shadow World and his prisoner is bound in iron, I can’t imagine it’s good.
I lean right and appraise the covered body. “Let’s just say that, for a corpse who smells like she’s rotted for centuries, your newest guest has the better accommodations.” I set aside my bloodstained blue velvet coat, wadded into a makeshift pillow. “Given our past and who I am, I find your poor hospitality insulting.”
He laughs, and I grimace. How easily I recall enjoying that sound.
“Insulting? My prison isn’t fit for a king? What would you prefer? An entire temple wing? A pretty maid to prepare your meals? A copper tub with a handsome wash boy, perhaps?”
I flash a bright smile. “That sounds outstanding. I’ll take all of it.”
“You’ll take the ground,” he says, his voice hard. “Be thankful I’m not offering less.”
After a deep breath of dank air, I narrow my eyes and study him. “What in the Nether Reaches happened to you? The last time I was here, you were no war-mongering murderer. You were so pleasant for a man shrouded in secrecy, and might I say more than determined to see that I enjoyed my stay.”
“You were here a long time ago. Thirty years, according to you. I’d forgotten. It clearly wasn’t memorable. And people change. Best to remember that. As you said, I’m not so pleasant now.”
“Not in the least.” I wink. “Though still willing, I bet.”
Another smirk, then he grips the bars and faces me. There’s no humor on his face anymore, and his eyes—eyes that were hazel if memory serves—are now darker than mine.
Voids. Hollow orbs.
Like they were on Winter Road.
“Don’t think that one night decades ago means I give two fucks about you now, Colden Moeshka. Because I don’t. You’re lucky you’re not bleeding from every orifice and begging for mercy in Yura’s pits.”
To stoke his ire, I stand and—though weak—cross the cell. Teasing, I slide my palms down the tattered remains of the tunic I’ve worn since Neri stole my power. I tug it open to reveal my bare torso. A starburst scar now streaks my skin, from the hollow of my throat to my navel, but the glimpse of nakedness still catches the prince’s attention.
He tracks my every move as I slip my fingers down my abdomen, until he drags that bottomless stare up to meet mine. The tiniest shimmer of recollection flickers there. Something he cannot hide, even within the shadows suffocating his soul.
Holding his gaze, I wrap my fingers around the bars above his fists, making sure our hands touch. “If I remember correctly—” I lean in and lower my voice, noting the sweet smell of sweat in his hair and dirt on his skin “—it’s you who does the begging.”
His gaze slides to my mouth. An eternal moment stretches between us before he jerks away from the bars, takes a step back, and rakes his fingers through his dark hair. “Still so godsdamn arrogant. I only found you beguiling back then because I saw that arrogance as… confidence. Now I see a man who pretends to be something he is not, to whatever end he desires.”
I lift my hands and clap. “And that, ladies, gentlemen, and all fair people, from a prince who doesn’t remember his own name.” The bars feel colder when I grasp them a second time. “Your very existence is pretend. You play the role of a mighty, conquering prince when you have no notion where you came from.” I lower my voice to a hush. “I told no one about our night together, but I remember everything. I can still hear you saying Colden across my lips, and I can still see your panic when I asked what I could call you. The horror in your eyes when I wanted to whisper your name, and you couldn’t even utter a single syllable. Don’t you ever wonder why you can’t recall your life?”
Though his exterior is composed, the distress behind his eyes is clear as glass. It’s a mirror to the past, that look so similar it’s like we’ve slipped back in time.
“My life is none of your concern.” The words grit between his teeth. “And know this: you meant nothing to me then, and you mean nothing to me now. A scenario that might be your norm. Should Fia Drumera surrender once she learns your life hinges on her decision to cooperate with my forces, I’ll keep you beyond her citadel’s gates. Alive. But if she doesn’t, if you are as insignificant to her as you are to me, then I will end you. If not for the sheer pleasure of proving how unimpressive that night with you was, then to bask in the moment when your friends watch you turn to dust.” He looks over his shoulder at the dead woman. “If all goes to plan, Alexi will join us soon. Once his power has returned in full, I will siphon from him, and there won’t be a damn thing anyone can do to stop me.”
He lets that thought linger, as though he’s had the last word, and exits the dead woman’s cell, closing and locking the door. I’ll give him a point. His declaration pierces me, even though I know that capturing Alexus Thibault once he has complete control of his magick won’t be a simple errand.
