Delletina’s last harvests were likely as ample as Renvalle’s, so they’d no need to steal. They hadn’t thieved significantly from their southern neighbor since before his birth, to Yarif’s knowledge, though there was no curtailing the occasional illegal trades. Trying to stop commerce between villages along the border only resulted in more cunning villagers.
If Draylon intended to be king, Yarif should bring this matter to his attention. Someone must be sent to investigate. Were the emperor’s troops amassing to the north? For what purpose? The emperor’s modest force had easily overthrown Renvalle.
Another report caught Yarif’s eye. And another. As soon as this cursed wedding business was over, one of his first acts as official king consort would be demanding his husband take action. Draylon wouldn’t be getting an easy mate. Yarif intended to serve in the same capacity he had for poor Baro. The kingdom would not suffer.
Even if Yarif occasionally raised his voice to make a point.
Maybe war would keep Draylon away, or he’d find other methods to amuse himself, leaving Yarif to take care of the kingdom.
He sighed, slumping down into his chair. All the wishing in the world wouldn’t change fate. He’d marry the man chosen by the emperor. Unlike the other betrothals, this one stood a chance of making it to the altar. Yarif had never asked, and Baro had never told precisely how those betrothals were voided. Assassins? Poison?
Likely poison, as no word reached the castle of the betrothed having been obviously murdered. Baro might not have excelled at reading, but he ranked right up there with Father in the treachery department.
One possible reason why Baro never married.
Yarif made notes, reorganized files, and otherwise performed regular duties. A stack of correspondence for Baro sat untouched. Most were invitations or requests. Yarif scanned them, ensuring no mention of Delletina or Craice, but couldn’t bring himself to read them thoroughly at the moment. Baro would no longer accept invitations, and who knew what happened to the prospective hosts?
He opened the book listing the country’s nobility with great trepidation. So many names, several crossed out years ago, some recently recorded—he crossed out a few more.
Death. So much death. He snapped the book closed, burying his face in his hands. This was his life now. Followed by guards, never allowed a moment alone, waking every morning wondering if today would be his last.
Worrying for the children.
Leaving the sleeping secretary where he lay, Yarif strolled into the hallway toward his rooms, ignoring the guards shadowing him. He’d never needed guards before unless he’d left the castle. Perhaps he should put them to use as practice partners. But no. He might need his skills at some point.
Against them. Let them be surprised.
“I’m not to be disturbed,” he announced as he stepped into his rooms, slamming the door in the guards’ faces. The door opened, and the guard Yarif privately called “the appendage” stepped inside, assuming his habitual post by the door.
Yarif left him there, strolling into his bedchamber. Glancing over his shoulder to ensure he didn’t have an audience, he stripped down to his small clothes. He found his specially made loose white trousers in a compartment under the window seat. Too bad his teacher wasn’t here. There was so much more to learn and no one to continue the methods Captain Unger taught.
Captain Unger, the last of a cult of Verlander assassins—saved from death and given a new assignment by Yarif’s mother.
Yarif stared longingly at the empty stand where he kept his rapier. Another matter to bring up to the commander: the return of his weapons. At least he still had several knives carefully hidden in the secret staircase.
No one had yet commented on the emptiness of his sitting room and how what furniture he kept sat pushed against the wall.
He peeked out, ensuring his guard waited in the antechamber. Nothing to be done if the man saw more than intended. Yarif’s restlessness needed an outlet, or Adrina wouldn’t be the only one needing a lecture on not antagonizing the uncivilized Cormirans.
Yarif bent at the waist, touching his bare toes, then grasped his instep, extending and retracting first one leg, then the other, fully to the side. He moved from stretches to lunges.
Granted, actual battle situations left no time for warmups. Still, he didn’t intend to explain strained muscles occurringbeforethe wedding night.
The wedding night. Lying naked and vulnerable with a man he barely knew. Then again, not much different from his previous sexual experiences.
Only, those partners were sworn to instruct him, not be actual lovers.
Shivers ran through him at the thought of what hid beneath Draylon’s clothes. Would he have scars? Tattoos? How big was his cock? Would he be gentle or forceful?
Then a horrifying thought hit. What if Draylon proved to be cold or cruel? Yarif would spend the rest of his life longing for a caring lover he’d never have. A loveless marriage, like his own parents’—at least on his father’s part.
Best not to dwell on such matters. There was still time to find a way to escape with the children or for the warrior of Yarif’s dreams to come save him.
He snorted. If he genuinely needed saving, he’d save himself.
A gleaming candlestick came close in size to the rapier’s hilt. At least his rooms hadn’t been pillaged yet. He grasped the silver tightly, making experimental swipes. Yes. It would have to do.
Extending the candlestick like a blade, he thrust, parried, spun, then parried again, imagining his mentor, Captain Unger.Watch your footwork, Yari! Never expose your back!
