Suppose that quietshouldread as intimidation, but to me it looks like confusion. His gaze hovers on the small space between me and Kai before searching our arms for ink in a way that indicates he has no idea who’s who. Too bad we’re both wearing shirts. Never could tell us apart, the bastard. Maybe if he ever bothered to look closely, he’d be able to do it. But there he is, trying to figure out which son punched the diplomat.
Hint: it’s the one who doesn’t stand and bow his head. I barely look at him. “If I apologise enough, can I just get off with a flogging in private? I’ll even show my ass to the camera if they’re that desperate to know I’ve been disciplined.”
Henrik visibly winces, knowing that our father is about to lay into me like a PR disaster. He wordlessly tries to tell me to shut it. To hold the line and keep the damage small.
Our father, on the other hand, doesn’t rise to the bait. He never does. “You leave for Sheffolk on Saturday.”
In six fucking days.
Henrik shifts in his seat, and Kai’s entire body goes tense. I chuckle to myself, taking a sip of the whisky before saying, “So that’s it then? One brawl and you’re throwing me to the wolves and calling it diplomacy? Charming.”
Still, he doesn’t react. “Let’s not pretend you didn’t throw yourself, Eryxon. In Milan. In New York. In every goddamned city you find yourself in.” I slowly set my glass down, barely biting my tongue. “I never asked for much from you, just an heir who doesn’t bleed on the flag. And you can’t even do that.”
I fight the urge to smile at him. The monologue is old by now, something I’ve been hearing since the age of fifteen. And I always let him finish, the only obedience I still bother with. It’s almost funny if you step back far enough. One punch, after nearly an hour of listening to some foolish son of a diplomat who can be bought with wine ranting about my brother—and it’s the greatest scandal this family’s ever had to face.
He’s calling me an embarrassment.Me, the son he once paraded in front of delegates and heads of state. My lips twitch, and I want to say something. It’s not even his stare that subdues me, nor my brothers’ expressions of desperation. No. It’s the way the light catches on his wedding band as he drums his fingers.
Say less, mean more, I remind myself and keep my mouth zipped.
Kai, bless his soul, intervenes, gesturing towards the book. “Father, Sheffolk might be dangerous.”
“And that’s exactly why he’s going.” That shuts him up. “You’ll live amongst them. Break bread with them. Learn howthey see us. What you’ll do,PrinceEric, is make yourself small. God alone knows you need it.”
He flags over the man that arrived by the door. The aide steps forward and places a thick, leather-bound folder before me, inches away from my glass and the history book.
“The hell is this?” I snap.
“Your education,” he answers smoothly, linking his fingers beneath his chin. His voice is almost bored. “Information on the duchy of Sheffolk. Names, histories, territories. All there is to know about the family you’re being dropped into.”
“You’re giving me homework? The fuck am I, twelve?”
Henrik looks at me as though asking,‘Why the fuck can’t you keep your mouth shut?’
There’s more he wants to ask; I know he can feel it. The tension. Kai is glaring, thinking I’m being overly dramatic again. Not a word comes from either of them, and I see their silent plea to not make it worse.Let it pass, you bastard.They hold themselves like obedient little sons, expecting me to do the same.
But if they knew what I did, neither would be able to look our father in the eye again.
The king straightens slightly, casting my brothers a look.The look, if I’m being honest. They move instantly, knowing better than to linger. Kai grabs my glass and chugs the whisky like a stressed mum, and Henrik offers me an apologetic grimace as he shuts the doors behind them.
The air is even stuffier than before: I might as well be pressed against the wall, suffocated by the presence of the man who calls himself king. “This is your last chance, Eric.”
I don’t bring it up. No matter how badly I want to. Instead, I provoke. My favourite pastime. “You’re sending me north to learntable manners.”
“I’m sending you north in the hope that you finally understand that being heir is more than just a title. It’s aduty, one you’ve been persistently failing at.” He catches my gaze, and that resolve makes something inside my chest ache. “You don’t have to respect me. But youwillrespect the Crown. Consider this your official warning. Humiliate us again, and you won’t have a throne to inherit.”
“What? Don’t tell me you’ll disown me?” I force a laugh, but again, he doesn’t react. Doesn’t snap at me or throw another lecture. That’s how I know he’s serious. And fuck, does my need to laugh grow tenfold. Not the restrained kind either, but maniacally.
I can’t believe he’s saying all this with a straight face, every word writing the usual story that I’m the problem child. The unpredictable prince who can’t be trusted. He’s saying it like he believes it. LikeI’mthe real scandal. It would be amusing if it weren’t so grotesque or if I weren’t sitting here being punished for his sins.
“Enjoy Sheffolk, Eric. Learn something for once, or don’t come back to this palace at all.”
I grab the folder and push to my feet. He looks up when I pause by the door. My voice drips with poison. “I punched a man for humiliating one of your sons. You’re burying another to hide a secret you can’t even look in the fucking eye. Pathetic.”
I don’t greet him when I walk off; he doesn’t scold me for it, and the door clicking shut after my exit is probably a relief to us both. Upon entering my room, I throw the file onto the coffee table, unbutton the top of my shirt, and pour myself another drink. I take a few sips before placing the glass down and glancing at the folder.Shit. The stack of notebooks is back on the table after I’ve stored it for probably the millionth time. Mum says they’re evidence of a beautiful mind, probably why she keeps turning them into decorative piles.
But the sight ofMeditations on First Philosophyby René Descartes, still with theUniversity of Creswycklibrary barcode half-peeled at the back, makes my stomach churn. I should’ve returned it years ago, but some part of me clings to that place where I once belonged.
Reflexively, my right hand flexes, feeling the familiar pressure of the gold signet ring around my pinky. I run the pad of my thumb along the engraving.E.P.H.A.These initials I’ve touched so often that they may as well be embedded into my skin. Eryxon Piers Hyperion Atherbourne.
