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Of course he wants something. Nerissa had suggested as much, but I foolishly, stupidly, hoped he’d set aside his own agenda in favor of avenging our father.

Whatever he wants, it can’t be good.

“While you’re renowned for being open and honest with your kindred”—Riven’s lip curls at the word—“I’d much prefer we speak in private.”

The aforementioned kindred are preternaturally still, either waiting for me to dismiss them or to tell my brother precisely where he can shove that dagger dangling from his hip.

“Whatever you need,” I say through gritted teeth, gesturing toward the castle.

He tosses a smirk at Eivor as he swaggers across the shoreline in those ridiculous boots he loves so much. Pointed at the toes like his ears. Stilling beside me, he pouts. “I do hope you’ve kept some Wyldeberry wine on hand. It’s no secret I’m far more amenable once you’ve got a drink in me.”

Then he glances over his shoulder and winks at my godsdamned mate.

The snarl vibrating in the base of my throat is lethal. A promise of death. He’ll sooner have a knife in him than a drink if he ever so much as⁠—

Rory lurches to her feet or at least tries to. Risna snakes a hand around her wrist and pulls her across the sun-drenched quilt, murmuring so quietly in her ear that even my vampiric hearing and Riven’s elevated fae ears can’t pick up on it. My lips twitch in a wordless goodbye as my features shutter. The mask of the leader of the Mors Soluta sliding firmly into place.

Cool, ruthless, utterly unbothered as I lead my rotten brother into our late father’s castle.

“Seems like you’ve updated the place since the last time I visited,” Riven notes, hands folded behind his back as he surveys the long hall connecting the main body of the castle to the celestial wing. He eyes the ribbed ceiling, adding, “And the architecture is spot on to my father’s handiwork throughout the original build.”

A compliment and an insult neatly bundled as one. Typical. I refuse to cringe at his use of my instead of our when mentioning Godrick. We’re both blood children of the male in different ways, whether or not he wishes to acknowledge me as a brother or even a godsdamned half-brother.

Arrogant prick.

There are so many things I could say to goad his temper, to press those polished buttons adorning his shirt until he’s raging with envy.

Godrick favored me.

Because I was the son he chose, not the son he’d been forced to sire for the throne.

I know it. Riven knows it.

But riling him up when I’m desperate for his support is the worst possible thing I can do.

“I’m glad you think so,” I say smoothly, ignoring his barb in favor of fake pleasantries. “Godrick taught me a great deal throughout the centuries we spent together.”

“How lovely.” His sapphire gaze cuts to mine. “All he taught me was how to leave.”

My mouth opens, closes. Sunlight glints off the burnished metal encircling his head, and I let the conversation drop because what can I possibly say to that? What good would it do to make apologies on behalf of someone who had centuries to make them himself but chose not to?

Godrick was a good father to me, but sometimes I wish he’d been kinder to Riven too.

The tapestry hiding the door to my study comes into view, and I draw to a stop. “We’ll speak here.” Pulling it back, I gesture for him to enter. “It’s the most private area on the estate.”

His calculating gaze assesses the stone work around the doorframe in one fluid sweep before he reaches for the handle and twisting it. As the door cracks open, torchlights placed thoughtfully along the walls and the chandelier dangling from the center of the room alight at once. If my brother’s impressed, he doesn’t show it. I follow him inside, letting the door swing shut behind us.

Riven’s lips flatten into a thin line as he takes in the study, eyes never lingering on anything for more than a breath. Apparently satisfied with his sweep, he stalks to the small seating area tucked into the corner of the room. Every movement is refined, honed into that of a lethal fae warrior. He sits in the chair with the best view of the door, folding an ankle over a knee.

“I’ll see if I have any wine on hand,” I say.

He hums.

I grit my teeth hard enough for them to crack. At the liquor cabinet, I push around several decanters half-full with absinthe, whisky, and other hard liquors in search of what I tucked away years ago.

My last bottle of Wyldeberry wine—a delicacy from the Fae Isles.

It’d been Godrick’s favorite because it reminded him of home.