There was nothing fond in it. Nothing warm. Only a nefarious edge, sugared with sin.
Smoke gathered at Ronan’s fists. “Miss Vale, then?”
Reve coughed, nearly choking on the liquor he’d been swallowing. He spat a half laugh, jabbing a finger at Ronan. “Iknewit. I thought I saw you dancing with her earlier.” Whiskey smeared across his knuckles as he wiped his mouth. “You two are familiar?”
Ronan slid a finger along the open edge of his shirt, tucking the gold chain beneath the fabric. “We have history.”
“Ah.” Reve’s tongue pressed against his cheek, pupil widening as he followed Ronan’s stare back to Verena.
The princess had been whisked away by an older man, his peppered hair smooth, his smile creased and bright.
Verena stood alone now, curls glued to the sheen along her neck, the silk of her gown clinging tighter where sweat kissed her skin.
Reve’s smile sharpened. “Well, I could never compete with you.” The flask swung sluggishly toward her. “Are you thinking of courting her?”
Ronan’s laugh rumbled low.Courting.That word wasn’t for her. Not with him. Not when she was already bound by prophecy, by venom, by death.
Reve’s heartbeat hammered, loud enough that it vibrated through the space between them. The band only amplified it, tangling beat for beat as Reve’s hand slid, uninvited, to Ronan’s shoulder.
“Excuse me, Your Highness,” he murmured. “I’m going to get my closure.” A squeeze. A smile stretched too wide. “Then she’s all yours.”
Dark amusement twisted in Ronan’s chest. His gaze dropped to the offending hand, already picturing how loud Reve would scream if he tore each finger from his hand, one by one.
Across the floor, Verena had noticed, her eyes cutting toward them, reading the violence thickening the air.
Ronan leaned in, letting smoke scorch the space between them. “I suggest you remove yourself quickly. Unless you wish for more burns across that hand.”
Reve held on a beat too long, brows cinching together as he realized what that meant, before peeling back with a chuckle and a patronizing slap to Ronan’s shoulder.
“Is all that fury for her?” His chin dipped toward Verena. “Or is it because you smell something else?” he added, tone dripping slow. “Something forbidden.”
The words lodged between them, uncertain.
Was he speaking of her? Of himself? Of what Obrann had already set loose? Was that what this had been, bait? A ploy to provoke Ronan into striking, handing the king his excuse for retaliation?
Or worse, was the Viper playing her own part?
The ballroom doors crashed open before the thought could fully take shape, thunder ricocheting through the chamber, strangling music, and laughter mid-note.
A servant stumbled inside, face blotched red, chest heaving, eyes wide with terror. “Where is the king?” he cried. “Where…where is His Majesty?”
Obrann didn’t even bother to turn his head. He lounged deeper on his throne, fingers drumming idly against the armrest as if the outburst were beneath him. Ira leaned in close, whispering against his ear, which drew a curl to the king’s mouth.
Stillness rippled outward. Reve straightened. Ronan’s shoulder tightened. Murmurs knifed through the room.
Until someone asked, “What’s happening?”
Ronan looked back to where Verena had stood, but she was gone.
The servant gripped the doorframe, trembling so hard the hinges rattled. “He’s dead,” he gasped. “Gods—he’s dead.”
A tremor rolled through the crowd.
“I…I didn’t do it,” the servant stammered, shaking his head. “It wasn’t me!”
Obrann shot upright at last, robes snapping behind him, amusement stripped away as the crowd broke into chaos.
Ronan’s voice cut through it. “Who?”
