My nostrils vented hot air. Given the upheaval since infiltrating the soldier camp and getting fucked by the First Knight, I might be misconstruing things. Maybe Lyrik was an opportunistic swindler, which in hindsight made no sense regarding Nicu, since this alchemist didn’t need any of us. He was doing fine on his own.
So maybe he was purely intrigued. Maybe he wasn’t coping with isolation as well as he pretended. And maybe he’d been baiting me out of amusement.
Yet I would take no chances.
Releasing my axe, I left the pavilion. After checking Nicu’s doorstep to make sure he was alone, I continued to my cabin. Exhausted, I mounted the front porch steps. My palm gripped the knob, then flew backward as a set of ruthless fingers snared my cloak. Hauling me from the threshold, that same hand swerved me around and slammed my body into the facade.
The man’s face cut into view, appearing with the force of a nightmare. A black mustache poured from his face like tar, its weight pulling the rest of his face into a disgusted scowl.
Rhys.
39
Aspen
“Heathen bitch,” he squawked through a row of yellowing teeth. “It was you.”
“What the fuck,” I gasped, wrestling to break free. “Get your hands off—”
“You destroyed the camp.” His rancid breath struck my nostrils, the odor as potent as if he’d dined on a toasted slug. “What did you think? That I wouldn’t notice your prolonged silence after my last instruction?”
“Your Majesty gave me an assignment that takes time.” With swift, controlled motions, my free hand whipped out the axe and angled it to his throat. “And my replies have always needed more than a couple of weeks. Quality over quantity.”
Avoiding the blade, Rhys’s head kicked back, and his features puckered. “You dare to raise your weapon against a king?”
“I dare to keep us quiet,” I corrected. “Yelling won’t solve anything. That’s what you’ve got me for.”
His temper cooled a notch. Most people in this world didn’t have a death wish, but counterintuitive to my initial approaches with this monarch, I’d learned a vital lesson. While this callous motherfucker flaunted his power, he also valued precision and strategy, especially if it protected his interests. This validated me as someone who thought fast on their feet, who looked out for him as much as myself.
Satisfied, Rhys’s grip on me loosened. Marginally.
He couldn’t have seen me and Aire in the campsite. Nor had we left any trace behind, which meant the troop must have mentioned my unscheduled visit. I admit, I should have kept this possibility in mind.
At any rate, the king likely confirmed my involvement and pretended my interruption had been intentional. Otherwise, he would look incompetent.
But how the fuck Rhys deduced my presence in The Lost Treehouses instead of a local inn or neighboring hamlet was anyone’s guess. Matter of fact, Aire and I concluded he left after the explosion. During our return trips, Rhys was nowhere in sight, leaving no indication that he was skulking the vicinity. Kings had busy schedules, and this one hardly gave a shit whether his cult healed fast, as long as they continued serving his agenda.
Regardless, I wagered this reckless monarch had stepped past the enclave’s border without considering if the treehouses wanted him here. The leaves bristled, and boughs curled inward like fists. Briefly, I imagined them crushing him to a pulp, thus contributing to society at large.
Unsure if the trees understood, I shook my head a fraction. Until I squeezed out all the information I could, I needed this dickhead wrapped around my pinky.
My tongue lashed, a new lie springing off the edge. “Those knights have been poking around your tent. I saw it myself: One of them found your medicine.”
Rhys failed to hide it quickly enough. His eyes widened like platters, dread chilling his pupils. Like a cheap illusion, the moment passed too late.
Medicine. Fertility drug. Semantics.
The less I pretended to know about the elixir, the better. But this told me plenty. From the get-go, I’d been trying to get this skeleton out of his closet.
The mystery of his secret heir.
Like Aire and I suspected, that enigma had to be connected to the vessel. It also explained his pitiful attempts to fuck Giselle. Slithering into her bed would produce another offspring, provided he downed the contents of that vial before ejaculating.
Giselle wasn’t the object of sexual frustration or lust. She was a receptacle for his plot, to ensure this missing heir didn’t rise like a phoenix and lay claim to his throne in the future. And this jittery king would only see that as a threat if something about this heir condemned him.
I lowered the axe but choked the handle. Promptly, I explained how I realized the campsite’s location from the pain in my markings, coupled with Briar’s memory. No harm in that. Then I used this bit of honesty to twist his angst like barbed wire.
“I came here because Aire’s mission yielded hints.” Theatrically, I leaned in and lowered my voice. “Whispers of the Summer King hiding a foul secret that could undermine his reign, something about certain remedies he ingests for unknown purposes. And some are speculating whether it’s madness.”
