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“You and I both know that’s not true. You must get yourself together, daughter of mine,” Idril said, finally stepping back from Wren. He sat down upon her bed as if he owned the place—because he did. Clearly, that extended to him believing he ownedhertoo. “You must keep a clear head, otherwise you’ll ruin everything we’re working toward.” He rolled his neck. “Plus, I’m sure you don’t want anything happening to my pretty little plaything.”

Clara.

“Leave her alone.”

Idril grinned. “As long as you behave, dearest. You keep up your side and I’ll keep up mine.”

He was as trustworthy as a snake.

Wren didn’twantto work with the vile creature. Idril forcing himself upon her mother—enslaving her, raping her, brutalizing her—gave him no right to possess Wren. Not as her father or in any other respect.

Nobody could have her. Wren had already lost the man she’d loved. There would be nobody else.

She ignored the fact Arrik flashed through her mind at the mere thought of having a husband.

Wren equally knew, however, that screaming and fighting and struggling like a spoiled, angry child was all wasted energy. She had to remain pointed and focused on taking down what really mattered.

She smiled at Idril, the very picture of a woman who had finally worked out where her place was in the world, and he relaxed. It was so easy to make him believe what he wanted, because the elf was clearly used to getting everything he desired.

The night had been horrific thus far. Disturbing. Traumatic. But at least it had finally brought Wren something she never thought she’d be given in all her life: an opportunity to avenge her mother.

She was going to send Lord Idril straight to his grave.

Now.

21

WREN

Wren didn’t give Idril an opportunity to see what she planned to do. He sat there on her bed, that greasy, commanding smile still on his face that meant he was certain of Wren’s compliance.

It was a good thing she had been brought back to her own room when she’d kicked up a fuss. Her one remaining dagger lay beneath the pillow right by Idril’s left hand; the vase shard was up her sleeve.

“I see you had a tantrum,” Idril tsked. “So wasteful.”

She lunged for the bed, slamming the shard of glass into his thigh. He yelled as she threw the pillow into the elf’s face and grabbed the blade.

“You little piece of trash,” he growled. Idril was quick to recover, twisting out of the way when Wren slashed at him, his leg bleeding. “You think you can face off against me with such a tiny thing?” he said, laughing like a maniac as Wren came after him again.

Idril dodged, as fluid as water, though there was a pattern to the way he moved that she was quick to pick up on.

“I think it isyouwho has the tiny thing,” Wren shot back, an insult which sounded as if it came straight from Arrik’s mouth.

It only caused Idril to laugh harder. He avoided another jab of Wren’s dagger. “You think you are clever, my child, but insults and innuendo only get you so far.”

“I find that blades get you further,” Wren countered, deftly dropping her blade from her right hand to her left to position the tip of the dagger against the elf’s groin. A vicious grin spread across her face. “We aren’t kin. I hope this makes my point clear.”

A flash of fear crossed Idril’s face, but it disappeared in an instant. His proud face sneered at Wren. “So you kill me. What then, Dragon Princess? What do you think becomes of your precious rebellion and the war they’re fighting? What do you think happens to your aunt, or that talented slip of a bard I have on good authority you consider a friend? You saved him from the Verlantian dungeons, I heard. He must really be dear to you. What about your Clara? I am the only thing standing between them and the wolves.”

Wren was undeterred. “If you are dead, we’ll survive.”

“Do you really think that, or is that sheer naïveté speaking through your mouth? I truly hoped my own daughter would be smarter than that.”

“I am not your daughter.”

“And yet you are. The facts of blood cannot be ignored, pretty child of mine, nor the position of power that gives me over you. Do I have to remind you that your mother wasmyslave? That makes you mine, no matter where she ran off to. No matter who raised you. I own you.”

“No one owns me.”