Page 6

She made him look weak. The king will never let that go.

A pang of irritation spasmed in Arrik’s temple. Had Wren only stayed put, things would be different now. If only he had told her what was going on sooner.

You couldn’t. You can’t jeopardize the plan for one woman.

He clenched his jaw and glared at a noble who dared look his way. The highborn man dropped his eyes back to his mug of ale.

Arrik knew the fault of their situation lay with him and him alone. His wife had been a prisoner, and him her captor. Of course she had wanted to escape. All Arrik had to do was tell her what he was doing, but he hadn’t been able to trust that she would follow along with his plans. She was too unwieldy, too coarse…and irresistible.

And that was the problem.

He’d cared for each of his wives, wanting only their safety, but none of them had stirred him like the Dragon Princess. Arrik wanted to savor her wildness—to capture some of her spark and keep it inside himself.

She’s making you soft.

There lie in the issue. Arrik couldn’t afford to show any weakness or form any attachments. Everything rested on his ability to execute the plan, even if it meant losing the one woman he desired more than any other.

He had made a choice and now he had to lie in his proverbial bed. His wife obviously believed the worst in him and he’d used that to his advantage. Wren expected him to genuinely be on the hunt for her, hell-bent on revenge or imprisonment or whatever her darkest fears were about what her monstrous Verlantian husband would do to her, and he’d allow that. For now.

One day perhaps, when his plans were all over, he’d have the opportunity to reveal his intentions to Wren in full. And with a small bit of luck, perhaps she’d forgive him.

Stop being so naïve. She’ll never forgive you.

Arrik shook himself and squared his shoulders. It would be best if he just wiped his lovely little bride from his mind completely. He had much more important tasks today.

Today was a day for other truths. Just not his own.

He rounded the corner and inwardly smiled as he came upon the opium den. The guards flanking the door, who were “discreetly” dressed like common men, straightened immediately at his approach. They did not hesitate in letting him or his men in. Who would dare refuse entry to one of King Soren’s sons? Especially considering the fact one of his sons was already inside.

Arrik’s lip curled as he stepped inside. The madam of the place froze for but a minute before approaching and then bowing deeply. She rose and opened her mouth to speak when he held out his hand to stop her. She pressed her painted lips together and nodded regally, but Arrik noted a flash of fear in her eyes despite her calm countenance. He raised a finger to his lips, and she dipped her head. His message was conveyed. He didn’t want his brother to know he was coming.

Arrik indicated to the left and the right, signaling for his warriors to move throughout the place in search of Kalles. He lifted a black scarf over his nose and mouth, then moved farther into the building.

The air was full of swirling, choking, purple smoke; he was careful to breathe in through a scarf tied around the bottom half of his face. Everywhere he looked there were silken curtains draped from the ceiling all the way down to the floor. Below his feet, innumerable carpets embroidered in lush, foreign patterns swallowed his footsteps. Every now and then Arrik came upon a recessed pit full of cushions.

In every pit, behind every curtain, and hidden in every corner, were the strung-out bodies of Verlanti’s most depraved nobles, and the poor souls who had no choice but to serve them.

Slave women, and men, and ones far too young to really be either yet—children by any other name. Arrik bit his tongue to stop himself from yelling out at the immorality of it all. This was what he hated the most. Death, he could handle. But the use of innocents, or the blank, shiny eyes of those completely out of their minds…?

He hated it all. He wished to burn it to the ground.

“Prince Arrik, over here!” one of his warriors, on his left, called through the den, though his voice was muffled by the smoke and the curtains.

Arrik cut through the dim light and bodies, shaking off hands that gripped at his ankles and begged him to lie with them, until eventually he came upon a roped-off area with a bed large enough for ten people.

Kalles lay upon the bed with his feet hanging off the bottom, two women kissing his toes.

He was completely lost and utterly unaware—or uncaring—of who might see him like this.

Kalles was the youngest of Soren’s sons, and the one who looked most like Arrik himself. His long, dark blond hair was splayed around his face, disheveled, tangled, and dirty. His heavy-lidded, cerulean eyes tried to focus, but Arrik could tell that Kalles saw nothing. He’d always loved outrageous fashions and colors, like his father, but where Soren’s clothes were always immaculate, Kalles had a deep purple stain upon the jewel-blue silk of his shirt, and the buttons had been ripped off.

He was a complete and utter state, all of his own making.

“Disgraceful,” Arrik muttered.

Arrik was ashamed to call him his brother. He was half-tempted to leave him here, to languish in his own filth and perverseness until he died. That’s what Kalles seemed to want most days. Why did Arrik keep saving his brother?

Because you care for him.