Astrid frowns. “You know all that about him, but you couldn’t tell me he was a Teleporter?”
“As I already said, I didn’t want to panic you,” her mum says curtly.
Astrid bites her tongue. There’s being protective, and then there’s being downright negligent. And while Astrid might not have been able to do anything about his Prime power, forewarned is forearmed at least.
She watches Zryan out of the corner of her eye as he pivots from the barons of Jandara to the baroness of Brithan, though the baroness is swiftly pulled away by a smiling Ottilie, and the baroness of Makesh takes her place, engaging Zryan in conversation. Astrid’s heart stumbles at the memory of Teleporting with him. As much as she never wants to do it again, she has begrudgingly accepted that it is pretty incredible he can not only Teleport himself but also take people with him. Even if he doesn’t seem to like doing so.
A man barely out of boyhood, wearing the red Vatran livery, approaches them, hands trembling, and Astrid smiles at him. “Yes?”
“Your Highnessesses,” he stammers out. She watches him as his mouth continues to open and close like a fish. “If you, you’d like to… if you want to…”
“Easy there, Evan.” Zryan pats the servant on the shoulder. “I’ll take it from here.” Evan looks so grateful to the prince you’d think Jessa had been about to flay him, and he scuttles away without a backward glance. Zryan offers a dip of his head in acknowledgment to her mother and Jessa, then holds his arm out to Astrid. “Ready for dinner, Princess?”
Astrid glances at Jessa, whose brows are pinched together in distrust, but Astrid links her arm in Zryan’s anyway, fighting back the shiver that runs through her as soon as they touch. He draws her in closer, his warmth clinging to her as he guides her to a doorway on the opposite side of the room. She tilts her head to get a better look at him. The plum jacket he’s wearing fits him perfectly, somehow accentuating, rather than masking, his muscled physique. She’s trying very hard not to find him so… distracting. When he notices her watching him, he gives her a quick wink that travels right down to the bottom of her stomach. She snaps her gaze away.
He leans in and whispers, “That is quite the dress—the color is beautiful on you,” and her breath hitches in response. She looks down at herself. Her pewter-gray gown complements his outfit. “How have you been since hosting your unexpected guests?” he asks.
She just about manages to control her voice. “Never better. My ego is bruised more than anything that I had to be rescued by you of all people.”
He chuckles, and it’s a surprisingly sexy sound. Chuckling should never be sexy. “And Bastet?”
“He’s painfully well—back to his world-weary self.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” They pass into a larger room with a long, wide rectangular table in the middle, two chairs set at the head, where she assumes the king and queen will sit. “I told Skylar about him.”
Astrid halts.“What?”
“She’s been training in the belief that she’s to face a fox the size of a small horse. I’m not sorry: my best interests are with her at the end of the day”—he leans even closer—“regardless of how much I like you.”
Two factions are at war inside Astrid: the one side that wants to smack him in the face for telling anyone about Bastet, the other relishing the fact that he said he liked her. What a pathetic specimenshe’s become. And really, how can she be angry with him? He’s only done what she would do if the shoe were on the other foot. Can she blame him for giving his sister—a total underdog who is most likely going to die—some relevant information that might help her survive this duel?
It’s a stark reminder of who he is—who they are to each other: a prince and a princess on opposing sides, each needing the other to lose. She tries to unlink his arm, but he clings tight.
“Now, now, Dimples.” He smiles. “Don’t be like that.”
She yanks her arm harder. “I know you didn’t just call me Dimples, you condescending ass.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t help myself. You have the most adorable dimples I’ve ever seen. They were just fighting to come out. It’s because I said I like you, isn’t it?”
“I hope I’m not sitting next to you.”
“That’s a lie and we both know it.” It’s not a lie. She doesn’t trust herself to be beside him. “And in a moment, you’re really going to wish you were sitting next to me once you see who you are sitting beside.” He inclines his head to the top of the table, at the two chairs side by side. In one of those seats is Skylar. Glaring at Astrid.
“Good luck, Dimples,” he says. “The trick is not to look directly at her. Then you should make it out relatively unscathed.”
Astrid punches him in the arm, winces when it feels like her hand is broken, then freezes as he takes it and brushes a kiss on her knuckles. He brushes another where the ink stains her fingers. She glowers at him, ignoring the fact that her lungs are no longer functioning. He gives her one of those ludicrous winks that make her feel like she’s swallowed too much sparkling wine, then tucks his hands in his pockets and leaves her to face the dragon heir alone.
She takes a deep breath and makes her way toward Skylar. As much as Zryan believes she’d rather be seated anywhere but next to his sister, he couldn’t be more wrong—this is exactly the opportunity she’s been waiting for. She needs to get inside the king’s office, and this woman is going to Gods-damn well help her. Although she’s not exactly sure how she’s going to convince Skylar. She’s hoping Skylar’s need to get into those offices outweighs her dislike of Astrid.
She slides into the chair and waits silently until the rest of the guests settle at the table and start to speak among themselves. Her mother is seated next to the king, with the baroness and baron of Brithan—the southernmost territory in Vatra—on her other side, and then the baroness of Makesh, which borders Talrok to the south-west, sitting at the far end. Ottilie is on the king’s right, then Axel at the corner nearest Skylar. At the corner nearest Astrid sits Jessa, though she’s so far away she may as well be at a different table. Then it’s the heads of state for Sarkan and their teenage daughter, Zryan next to her, and the barons of Jandara—a territory of scorching deserts and sprawling jungle—on his far side. Fionn takes up a spot against the wall behind Astrid; their beaver, Arboria, isn’t here tonight, as the Vatrans requested no familiars while they dined. Rude.
“I hear you almost died the other night. A shame,” Skylar says. Astrid has to concentrate on what she’s saying, as she finds Skylar’s accent hard to understand.
“A shame I almost died or a shame I didn’t?” Astrid asks.
“The latter. I’d be put out of my misery and you’d get what you deserve.”
“You think I deserve to die?”
