Page 102 of Fall of Ruin and Wrath

“Is that true?” Claude asked.

Across from us, the Hyhborn prince sat as he had in my bed-chamber earlier. A short glass of whiskey in hand, his posture almost relaxed,almostlazy; but the coiled tension, the barely restrained power, was there.

“Depends,” Prince Thorne answered, tracing the rim of his glass, the amber-hued liquor nearly the same color as the hair resting against his jaw.

“On?” the Baron prodded.

Prince Thorne’s jaw tightened. “On exactly how . . . strong one may be. Healing such an injury would take an extraordinary amount of energy, even for a Deminyen.” His gaze tracked Claude’s fingers as they slid beneath the panel of my gown, and I bit down on the inside of my lip. “Energy is not infinite, no matter the being.”

“Interesting.” Claude swallowed another mouthful.

“Is it?” Prince Thorne inquired. “Should I be concerned about such interest?”

I pressed the side of the flute against my chest, skin prickling at how deceptively soft his tone was.

“Well, I’m half tempted to chop off an arm just to watch it grow back,” Claude said with a loud laugh. “Must be a bizarre thing to witness.”

My eyes went wide. I told myself he didn’t just say that to a Hyhborn— tothePrince of Vytrus.

The Prince’s finger stilled on the rim of his glass. Flames rippled suddenly above the candle.

“He’s only joking, Your Grace.” I smiled, stomach twisting. “There is no need for worry. He just has quite the unique sense of humor.”

“I’m not worried,” Prince Thorne replied, returning to tracing the rim of his glass. “After all, he hasn’t picked up a sword since when? He came into his title?”

I doubted Claude had handled a sword before then.

“And one would have to wield a sword made ofluneaif they thought to pierce the skin and bone.” He paused, taking a small drink of his whiskey. “They are quite . . . heavy.”

I took a rather large gulp of my champagne then, knowing damn well Claude couldn’t lift aluneasword. Prince Thorne knew that.

So did Claude. “Touché.” He laughed, reaching for the bottle of brandy. His pour was surprisingly steady. “Though, there areluneadaggers that I imagine are less unwieldy.”

Dear gods. . . .

“I would like to know something,” Prince Thorne stated. “What will you do if the Iron Knights breach Archwood?”

“That shouldn’t happen with you and your regiment guarding the city.” Claude’s fingers slid under the panel of my gown once more. “But if there were to be a . . .” Claude drank, and I tensed. “If there were to be a failure? I have my guards.”

Prince Thorne smiled faintly. “And if your guards are killed?”

My stomach knotted, gaze shooting to the door. I didn’t even want to think about that.

“Then I suppose I would be up the river without a paddle, as they say,” he said, sliding his hand over my thigh. His palm grazed my stomach.

Prince Thorne smirked. “Well, let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Let’s.” Claude’s fingers returned to the lacing, as did the Prince’s regard. “But in all seriousness? If that were to happen? I would defend what is mine in any way I possibly could. Even if I haven’t picked up a sword in many years.”

Halting with his whiskey halfway to his mouth, Prince Thorne tilted his head. “And what do you consider yours?”

Claude’s fingers brushed over the swell of my breast. “Everything that you see.”

“Everything?” Prince Thorne pressed.

“The city, from the Eastern Canal to the Wychwoods, and her people. Their homes and livelihoods,” Claude said, and it was the first time I’d heard him sound, well, like a baron should. Which was a stark contrast to his fingers dragging over the tip of my breast. I jerked, a small breath escaping me. The thin material was no real barrier against the coolness of his touch. “The grounds and gardens, this very home and everyone inside it.”

“Your staff?” The Prince’s gaze was latched on to the Baron’s hand. “Your paramours?” Taking a drink, he didn’t blink. “Yourpet?”