Mathos wrapped his arm around his trembling mother and let her lean on him. He was already as tall as she was, sharing the same burgundy-and-gold scaling, the same thick, dark blond hair and hazel-brown eyes.
But that was where the similarity ended. His personality was his father’s—or so he’d been told. Usually when his tutors were accusing him of arrogance or stubbornness. Or when he was trying to charm his way out of trouble.
And now his father was dead.
“Thank you, Matty,” Mother whispered through her gently falling tears. “I knew you’d take care of us.”
He tightened his arm and willed her not to say it.Please, gods, just don’t let her say it. Please. Let me get through today first.
The beast in his belly rumbled unhappily, but she didn’t seem to notice as she dabbed delicately at her eyes.
“You’re the man of the family now.”
Chapter One
Present day
Lucilla pickedat her dinner and watched the staff around her. Something was definitely wrong.
One of the kitchen girls had gone into the village for market day and come back late, brimming with a strange kind of nervous excitement as she rushed through the house and into the scullery to gossip.
And now they were all looking at her. Not blatantly, no. Little glances that made her stomach clench. Speculative. Calculating, even. But they quickly turned their heads and looked away when she focused on them, whispering in corners and then suddenly falling silent.
They knew something. Something about her. Something bad.
She had asked her maid what was happening, only to be given a long, blank stare. They were Ballanor’s people; they didn’t answer to her.
There was only one thing she could think of that would make them behave so suspiciously. Ballanor’s wife must be pregnant. Or perhaps the baby was already born?
Damn. That brought her life expectancy down dramatically.
While Ballanor had no heir, he could be expected to keep her around, just in case. But if he didn’t need her anymore—if he had an heir of his own—what then? Then he would decide that the threat of her existence outweighed the benefit of keeping her around and finally act.
She had been locked away her entire life. Twenty-six years with no freedom, no friends and not one possession that was entirely hers. The last thing she wanted was more of the same. She had absolutely no desire to rule the kingdom; all she wanted was to be allowed to walk away and build something that was hers. Not the council’s, not her family’s, not her politically chosen husband’s. Hers.
She wasn’t a threat to anyone. But Ballanor would never see it that way. His mind was filled with plots and suspicions and hatred—he simply couldn’t understand people who didn’t want power at any cost—and he’d detested her since the moment she was born.
It was hardly surprising that Ballanor blamed her for the death of their mother; her father had felt exactly the same way. Geraint had sent her away to be brought up by strangers, rather than have to look at the little girl whose life had cost him his precious wife, and proceeded to do his best to forget she’d ever existed.
But her brother? Ballanor hadn’t forgotten her. No, he hated her to the depth of his soul. If he even had one. And if he knew his line of succession was certain, he would love nothing more than to finally be rid of her.
For years it had hovered over her, that feeling of waiting to die. Of wondering just what it would take for her father to forget her completely and her brother to finally act. And now that Geraint was gone and most likely there was an heir on the way, that moment had come.
When Geraint had died at Ravenstone, the need to run had become overwhelming. She hadn’t bothered to mourn the father she’d hardly known—and never liked—she was too busy worrying about what his death meant for her. Ballanor was suddenly the man in charge of her fate, and it had filled her with horror.
She’d been determined to leave before she could find out what he’d do. And she’d almost done it. She’d been so very close… until she wasn’t. That first attempt had been a disaster in every way, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her. She had learned from those mistakes, and now she was really going to do it.
She ignored the whispering staff and schooled her face into the demure and slightly glazed look that had served her well through countless hours with governesses, tutors, and most especially Lieutenant Claudius, the man in charge of keeping her safely locked away.
It was the same look she wore when Geraint and Ballanor had made their rare visits to check on her, spending their few hours in the manor home talking with her guards, followed by finding fault with everything she did and said and thought. She was too stubborn. Too argumentative. Too unladylike. Too stupid. Too useless.
Slowly she had learned to keep all of her thoughts to herself—safely hidden behind her blank face and insipidly sweet smile—ranting in silence to avoid the threat of punishment. It was amazing just how cathartic a well-timedfuck youcould be while delivered in the safety of her own head.
It served her well now too. The servants could whisper and stare, filled with their secrets. But they wouldn’t guess that she had secrets of her own. Her own plans.
There was no more waiting for the perfect time to leave. There never would be a perfect time. There was only the danger she was in. And that meant she had to go.
Now.
