Page 25

He eyed the attackers strewn about the ground and studied their clothes. Stooping low, he dug through the pockets of the nearest slain man, discovering a pouch full of mixed gold that could have come from anywhere.

He clenched his jaw and stood, dropping the coin purse on the ground.

This hadn’t been a band of scraggly, hungry drug addicts or desperate peasants. They would never possess that much gold, let alone gold from the isles and the south. Someone was trying very hard to hide the origin of these men.

He huffed out a breath and pushed his silver braids from his face. Plus, Arrik wasn’t even sure Queen Astrid had been the target. Rather, it felt like…

It felt like Arrik himself had been the target.

Not the first time, nor the last.

If that were the case, he’d have to do some investigating as to who knew that he was expected to be in Novenport, and when. Yet that was a subject to research on another day. He glanced in the direction of the assailant he’d wounded, only to spy a bloody spot on the stones. Arrik growled underneath his breath.

“What is it?” the captain asked.

“The man that attacked first. He’s gone. Send someone to find him. He’s our only lead to figuring out who ordered this attack.”

“Done.”

He watched in silence as the captain of the guard began to bark orders at his men. For now, Arrik had to see the queen safely into the keep and tend to his arm and pray that nothing else got botched.

Thankfully, the keep was already full of servants, who took over from Arrik in organizing everyone into rooms and to general comfort and safety. A woman tried to usher Arrik into a room so that she could clean his arm, but he fought her off.

“I am more than capable of doing it myself,” he bit out, in no mood to deal with the hopeful look on her face that implied she wanted something more than simply thanks in return for helping him. The pain in his arm was bothering him more than he expected, considering it wasn’t that deep. He imagined his overwhelmingly irritated mood had something to do with it.

By the time he reached the quarters that had been assigned to him—much smaller than Arrik supposed was befitting a prince, no doubt a deliberate move on Soren’s part—he collapsed onto the bed and let out a heavy sigh. He was fed up. Of life, of war, of court games, assassins. He had things he wanted to do. Needed to do. And Soren was keeping him busy with, well, busywork. It was deliberate, and they both knew it.

The devilish snake.

Had the king himself ordered the attack to get rid of him?

No, that didn’t make any sense at the moment. Soren wanted Arrik out of the way, yes, but still on his side, ruling the Dragon Isles with the unruly red-haired princess. Soren could not have that if Arrik were dead. Sure, the king was angry that Wren had escaped their clutches, but not enough to send assassins after him.

So who?

He somehow doubted it was Kalles, even though he’d encouraged Wren to murder him. His brother was still throwing himself into every drug den he could find.

Some time must have passed, for the next moment Arrik blinked, the window into his room had grown dark and he had bled all over the white sheets of his bed. The servants would hate him.

“Great,” he muttered, ripping his torn shirt away with his armor to attend to the wound. But just then the creak of the door opening caused him to pause. “I will come for food when I need it,” Arrik called out, assuming it was a servant. “So you can—”

“Last time I checked, you waited on me, Arrik, not the other way around,” Queen Astrid said in her dangerously silky voice, entering the room and quietly closing the door behind her. She swanned over to him and knelt at his feet, dark eyes twinkling. “Though perhaps I can be convinced to serve you just this once.”

She had come dressed as scandalously as if she were going to one of her husband’s revels. As if Astrid expected Arrik to be a wanton and willing partner for whatever illicit activities her clothes implied she wanted. The sheer, silvery material across the woman’s ocher skin left very little to the imagination. Any other red-blooded man would have found it nearly impossible to turn her down. But Arrik was having none of it; he knew Astrid was a viper not to be trifled with. When she began tending to his bleeding arm, he let her do so, though he remained silent. Flatly turning down his stepmother always led to dangerous consequences. He needed to tread carefully.

“That was a close call out there,” Astrid said, keeping her tone conversational, though when she glanced up at Arrik from beneath her eyelashes there was nothing casual about the bedroom eyes she gave him. “I was lucky the king put you in my retinue for this trip. I am sorry you got hurt.”

Arrik gritted his teeth, feeling a migraine coming on as a result. She was baiting him to say something—anything—and he was determined not to give her anything to work with.

Eventually, Astrid finished cleaning and wrapping his arm and gave his bicep a pat. “That wasn’t too deep. It didn’t cut into your muscles. Which is good, considering what I would like to get up to with you tonight…”

“We have been through this before, Queen Astrid,” Arrik said, keeping his tone even. He pulled his arm away from her touch and her face hardened. “I am not interested. How could I commit such a great badness against my lord king and father?”

The queen stood up to her full height; with Arrik sitting on the bed she reigned over him. There was no warmth of seduction left to her presence, only bitter anger and a willful vengeance Arrik knew the queen was happy to inflict upon all who displeased her. “You have no right to dismiss me,” she seethed. “I am your queen—”

“Married to my father, as I recall.”

“Do you wish to die, bastard prince?” she demanded, bristling. “Keep denying me like this and you will see how easy it is for me to have you killed.” A pause. “And my menneverfail.”