Page 9

Well, to be honest, it was bullshit.

His childhood was a hellish nightmare. One filled with bodies, blood, loneliness, and despair.

Children were rare among the Fey, with fewer and fewer being born each year. No one knew why, but the problem had now reached a critical level for the twelve great and noble Houses. The nobility depended on bloodline and lineage to secure their power. For these families, there was no greater treasure, no greater asset, absolutely nothing to rival the importance of guaranteeing the next generation.

Skye’s birth ended a centuries-long succession crisis in Ghislain. The papers called him a golden boy, a pureblooded miracle to secure Ghislain’s power into the next myria-millennium at least.

It was good to feel wanted—but not this way…

The first assassination attempt came five minutes after Skye was delivered. One of the menders attending his mother tried to smother him while cleaning off the afterbirth.

By the age of one, he’d been through two nannies. Skye couldn’t remember their faces and only really knew what he’d been told. The first died taste-testing poisoned breast milk; the second, when a pacifier rigged to explode went off in her hands. Skye was found sitting in the middle of the carnage, covered in blood and finger-painting with her entrails.

The years passed, and the bodies piled up around him. It was a constant, revolving door of faces. By age four, he’d been through ten more nannies and 212 bodyguards, or roughly one for every week of his short life.

Nobody ever stayed. Nothing was permanent.

Except for Orin.

Skye was never allowed in public spaces—the chance of one of their rivals using the anonymity of the crowd was too great. Instead, he had a body double for when the family travelled. They would dress them in identical outfits, glamour away Orin’s human eyes and ears. And, while he played the role of prince for the adoring public, Skye would be quietly moved behind the scenes.

Because they were the same age, they were allowed to play together, take classes together. They were friends experiencing the newness of life together, every day adding the first brushstrokes onto the canvas of their story.

Because of Orin, Skye was never lonely. Indeed, he was never alone. During the kidnapping drills, the martial arts training, they even slept in adjacent rooms. And maybe it was because of that proximity that Orin survived for as long as he did. At that point, Skye was still naïve enough to believe that he could be happy. That even in a life where all the people kept changing, there could still be something good.

Orin lasted long enough that Skye forgot for a moment—he was a prince.

Soon enough, the world reminded him.

Orin died walking in the official procession leading into Skye’s Attunement Ceremony. Skye was already inside the temple, but he remembered hearing three shortpopsfrom outside before utter chaos erupted.

The guards swept into motion, ushering him out. The priestesses were screaming. The crowd outside was roaring. He remembered the smell of blood and the brief glimpse of his father’s seneschal as he swept through the doors of the antechamber where they’d been preparing, carrying a limp body in his arms.

There was a different boy after that—the very next day, in fact. Apparently,severalhad been purchased at the time of Skye’s birth just for this purpose. All trained to look like him, talk like him, walk like him—like little clones. It was almost like Orin never left. His family was, if anything, well prepared for a crisis. And the message was clear.

Those boys were dispensable. He was not.

He was a prince.

The second boy—Sensa—only lasted a week. Skye stopped learning their names after that.

The next morning, the storm was still out there, hammering against the rickety stable. Yet despite the gloom, the damp chill, and the walls that seemed to press in tighter with each passing day, Skylen Emrys climbed the ladder into the hayloft and smiled at the sight that greeted him.

Taly lay on her stomach, socked feet kicking behind her as she studied the map spread across the floor. Her shirt had ridden up, just enough to expose the lower curve of her back.

Her ass deserved its own religion. One he was already halfway to founding.

Toned. Tight. Shifting with every lazy kick of her feet.

There was a time when he would’ve ignored it. Forced himself to look away before his brain fully processed just how much he liked that view. And when that failed, he made excuses. Convinced himself he was just appreciating her discipline. Her dedication to training. Herdeepcommitment to leg day. That lie had worked for years—right up until he was forced to admit it wasn’t the structural integrity of her squat form he’d been admiring. He was just staring at her ass.

But now? Now, he didn’t have to pretend anymore.

Now, he couldlook.

And Shards help him, that’s exactly what he did.

“I assume Kato’s still breathing?” she said in greeting.