My fist connected with his jaw before I’d consciously decided to move. The satisfying crunch of bone meeting bone echoed through the study as Theron tumbled backward, his chair tipping with the force of the blow. His drink splashed across his chest, staining the fine fabric of his formal attire.
“What the fuck?” he sputtered, hand flying to his jaw as he sprawled on the carpet.
Father rose halfway from his chair, shock registering on his face before settling into the cold disapproval I knew so well. “Alain! Have you lost your mind?”
I flexed my fingers, feeling the sting across my knuckles with distant satisfaction. “Apologize,” I said quietly.
“For what?” Theron demanded, struggling to right himself. “Saying out loud what we’re all thinking? She’s just a peasant girl, brother. No different from any other woman you’ve fucked and forgotten.”
“Apologize,” I repeated, my voice deadly quiet, “or the next one breaks something you can’t hide beneath a beard.”
“Enough!” Father slammed his hand down on the desk. “Both of you! Behaving like common brawlers instead of princes of the realm. Disgraceful.”
I stepped back, still watching Theron with narrowed eyes as he clambered to his feet. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and a bruise was already forming along his jawline. Good. Let him carry the mark for days, a visible reminder that some lines shouldn’t be crossed.
“I need to rest,” I said flatly. “The tournament begins early, and I intend to be in top form.”
“Running away, little brother?” Theron taunted, though he kept a careful distance between us now. “Or running back to your wench’s bed?”
I turned toward the door, refusing to dignify his baiting with a response. “Goodnight, Father. Brother.”
“Alain,” Father called as I reached for the handle. “This discussion isn’t finished. The girl cannot stay here indefinitely. Either find her a suitable position elsewhere or... make other arrangements. But remember your duty to this family.”
I paused, hand on the ornate brass. “My duty has never been in question,” I said without turning. “But neither has my judgment. Trust that I know what I’m doing.”
I closed the door behind me before either could respond, cutting off whatever new argument Theron was already formulating. The hallway stretched before me, dimly lit by wall sconces that cast more shadows than light. My chambers lay to the right, a hot bath and soft bed waiting to ease the tension from my muscles.
Instead, I turned left.
I told myself I was just checking on her. Making sure she’d settled comfortably after the strain of dinner. That’s whatI always told myself during these midnight wanderings that inevitably led to her door. Just checking. Just making sure she was safe. Just needing to see her breathe, to know she hadn’t disappeared like my sister had, swallowed by whatever darkness had claimed her.
The guards posted outside Isabeau’s room straightened as I approached, their expressions carefully neutral. They’d grown accustomed to my nightly visits, though I knew they talked when I was gone. Let them talk. I was beyond caring what rumors circulated about my midnight vigils.
“Has she retired?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
“Not yet, Your Highness,” the older guard replied. “The maid left an hour ago, but we’ve heard movement since then.”
Still awake. The knowledge quickened my pulse in a way that made me feel like an untried boy rather than a seasoned warrior. I shouldn’t disturb her. She needed rest, needed peace after the tension of dinner. I should return to my chambers, work off this restless energy with training exercises or battle plans for the upcoming tournament.
Instead, I nodded to the guard. “I’d like to see her.”
He hesitated only a moment before unlocking the door, proof of how routine these visits had become. As it swung open, I steeled myself for what I might find. Isabeau asleep, her auburn hair spread across white pillows like fire on snow. Isabeau reading by candlelight, her profile gilded by the flame’s glow. Isabeau staring out the window toward the distant forest that still called to her in ways I couldn’t understand.
What I found instead was Isabeau fully dressed, a small bag clutched in white-knuckled hands, her face a mask of panic as she whirled toward the opening door. Rage consumed me like never before. She was trying to leave. She planned to leave me.
forty-three
Isabeau
Time froze between one heartbeat and the next as Alain filled the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking any hope of escape. My fingers clenched around the small bag I’d hastily packed, knuckles whitening with the force of my grip. The makeshift rope of tied bedsheets dangled from the window behind me like the sad tail of some pathetic creature, mocking my desperate attempt at freedom.
I didn’t need to see Alain’s face to know what was coming. The initial shock, the dawning realization, and then the fury. Always the fury when a man discovered his possession was trying to slip away.
His eyes swept from me to the window and back again, comprehension dawning across his noble features. For a fleeting moment, something almost like amusement flickered in those ice-blue eyes. Then his gaze dropped to the bag in my trembling hands, and any hint of humor evaporated like morning dew under a harsh sun.
“Going somewhere?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft. The kind of softness that preceded violence in my experience.
I swallowed hard, mind racing for an explanation that wouldn’t sound as desperate as it was. “I was just—”
