Page 32 of Fey Sovereignty (Fey Lords #4)

Chapter thirty-two

T he sharp knock echoes through Llywelyn’s rooms. I swiftly walk out of the study, away from the murder board, and lock the door behind me.

I hurry to the main sitting room and plaster my ‘dumb human pet’ expression onto my face. If this is Prys knocking on Llywelyn’s door again, it is going to be really hard not to punch him.

Llywelyn looks up from his game of solitaire and we both watch Tae open the door. A smartly dressed servant hands Tae a small silver plate with a perfectly rolled scroll on it, before turning on her heels and striding away.

Tae brings the plate and the scroll to Llywelyn. The prince furrows his brow, picks up the note, and unties the pretty red ribbon. His eyes scan over the paper.

“What does it say?” I blurt, because apparently all my patience has abandoned me.

“It’s a dinner invitation,” replies Llywelyn.

My hands curl into fists. “From who?”

“Selwyn.”

I huff out a breath and uncurl my fists. Selwyn is far better than some creep trying to paw at Llywelyn. Even if he is a dodgy, untrustworthy bastard.

Llywelyn carelessly lets the invitation fall onto the table. “Shall we go?” he says as he looks up at me.

Something in my soul stirs, so intensely it nearly takes my breath away. Llywelyn is deferring to me. And I love it. With an intensity that is a little frightening .

It is not the first time he has done so. But the casual, easy nature of this occurrence is special.

“Yes,” I say decisively.

He nods and flows to his feet. “I’ll get your leash.”

I blink in surprise. “The invitation is for right now?”

“Yes,” calls Llywelyn over his shoulder as he picks up my leash from the side table.

I walk over to him and he gently clips the chain onto my collar. Our gazes meet and hold. There was a time when I was counting down the days until I was free of this collar. Now, I think I might miss it.

My gaze roams upwards, and I smile.

“What?” Llywelyn asks with narrowed eyes.

“You are already displaying your antlers. You were wearing them in your rooms.”

He blushes slightly. More evidence for my theory that horns are tied to mood. One day, I want to make him so happy that he can manifest his horns all the time with no effort at all.

My hand lifts up, and my fingers run along one magnificent tine. It is warmer than I expected. Softer too. Llywelyn shivers and leans into my touch. My eyes snap back down to his, just in time to see his pupils dilating.

My eyebrows rise. My heart hammers in excitement. Horns are erogenous? Touching them feels good? Oh, I have to explore this.

“We are going to be late for dinner,” whispers Llywelyn.

Shit. Maybe we don’t have to go? We can find out what Selwyn wants another time.

Llywelyn steps back. Placing a distance between us. Space that fills with a cold breeze that cools my heated skin and brings me to my senses.

He is right. With a groan, I pull myself together. Dinner shouldn’t take that long. Then we can come back here and I can investigate fey horns thoroughly. Very thoroughly .

Indecent images flow through my mind all the long walk to Selwyn’s rooms. I’m only able to banish them once a servant ushers us inside, and I am met with the profusion of plants and flowers spilling everywhere in Selwyn’s rooms.

Is he innocently green fingered? Or into poisons like Dyfri?

The servant leads us to a cosy dining room, much like Llywelyn’s breakfast room. Selwyn is already seated, and he stands up politely to greet us.

There is an abundance of silverware on the table. Including several candelabras of lit candles.

Llywelyn stops in his tracks and I nearly walk into his back.

“You are engaged?” he exclaims.

Selwyn’s hand flies up to one of the many plaits twisting through his brown hair. “Ah. Yes. The engagement party is in a couple of days.”

Llywelyn says nothing. He doesn’t even move. I’m behind him, so I can’t see his expression.

Selwyn gestures towards the table. “Please, have a seat.”

Llywelyn jerks, then moves. He gracefully sits down. I gingerly take the chair next to him, and then huff a silent sigh of relief when nobody yells at me to sit on the floor. I still haven’t quite grasped the rules around when pets get chairs. However, here and now makes sense. Selwyn doesn’t know I’m a secret agent, but he knows my relationship with his brother is far more than pet and master.

“I didn’t even know you had anyone special,” says Llywelyn. He is clearly aiming for casual and nonchalant, but I can hear the petulant sulk in his voice. Along with the hurt at being excluded.

Selwyn shrugs elegantly. “I don’t. It was arranged.”

Four gnome-like servants swoop in and efficiently serve the first course. It looks delicious. Some kind of creamy soup and soft bread.

As soon as the staff leave, Llywelyn spits out, “Rhydian is marrying you off?”

He sounds really pissed off. Furious even .

But Selwyn simply smiles. “Something like that.”

“To who?” demands Llywelyn.

“A nisny vessel.”

I shake my head, but it does no good. My translator is not helping with these two words.

“What’s a nisny vessel?” I ask as I pick up my soup spoon.

“A nisny is a human with some fey ancestry,” says Llywelyn. “And a vessel is a person who has magic but cannot wield it. They need to give it to someone through sex.”

I let my surprise show. I am supposed to be a simple human man. An unwilling captive new to the strange world of the fey. So being taken aback is fine.

“Rhydian is seeking an alliance with human mages, specifically the British nobility,” says Selwyn.

What the hell? Is he saying that the British nobility are secretly mages? And if this nisny bride of his is to seal an alliance, that implies that human nobles also have fey ancestry along with their hidden magic powers.

This is a lot to take in. I’ve worked with a duke. And a couple of lords. The aristocracy has long ties with MI5 and MI6. Were they really keeping such secrets all along?

I focus on eating my soup. I can’t glare at Llywelyn right now. This bloody better be something he forgot to tell me, or that he thought was irrelevant. If I find out he has been keeping yet another thing from me, I’m seriously going to lose my shit.

Llywelyn’s spoon clangs angrily against his bowl. “Rhydian can’t just marry you off like that. It is not fair!”

I quickly shove a bread roll in my face to hide my proud grin. That’s my boy. Get Selwyn on board with your cause.

Selwyn shrugs while calmly dragging his spoon through his soup. “He can. I don’t mind. The boy is pretty and his magic is potent.”

Llywelyn pouts. “That’s not the point. ”

“It is sweet of you to be concerned about me, Brother. But I’m fine with it.” Selwyn says with a soft smile and a gleam in his eye.

I snatch my gaze away before he sees my frown. A pretty boy who doubles as a magical battery? No, that doesn’t sound like much of a hardship. The dirty bastard.

“It’s not fair,” grumbles Llywelyn.

He pours himself a glass of white wine. My chest tightens. I really don’t want him getting drunk. But a pet wouldn’t intervene. I cast a quick glance at Selwyn. He thinks I’m his brother’s Alpha. Is it acceptable for an alpha to intervene?

Llywelyn’s words ruminate in my mind. Wait a minute. In what way is it not fair? Does Llywelyn want an arranged marriage? Fuck. What if Rhydian does that? Finds Llywelyn a husband or a wife? Though I’ve heard that the fey are keen to stick to same-sex pairings because they don’t want offspring. Not that the preference helps me. Llywelyn being given a husband would still be a disaster.

I grab a bottle of wine and slosh a generous serving into my empty glass. Then I pick it up and gulp it down. I’m being absurd. Jealous and possessive and not at all rational. I need to calm down.

“You can’t let him do this!” insists Llywelyn.

Selwyn stares at him for a moment. Then he sighs. “We are royalty, Brother. It is our fate. Our duty. Rhydian isn’t burdening me out of spite. He has similar plans for his favourite brother.”

Llywelyn coughs. He hastily grabs a napkin and covers his mouth, catching the wine he otherwise would have spat out everywhere.

“He is marrying Dyfri off?” he gasps and his horror isn’t hidden at all.

My heart picks up pace. Adrenaline rushes through my veins. I know Llywelyn’s secret. I know why this is such an emotive topic for him. But Selwyn doesn’t know, and it would be a catastrophe if Llywelyn let something slip.

“So I’ve heard,” Selwyn says calmly .

He reaches for a bread roll. I can see confusion in his eyes, but nothing too suspicious. Yet.

“He cannot do that!” Llywelyn all but yells. “Does Dyfri know?”

Llywelyn’s face is far too pale. His eyes are large and frantic.

Selwyn’s brow furrows. “Rhydian can do that, and no, Dyfri doesn’t know. So you mustn’t breathe a word.”

Llywelyn jumps to his feet, sending his chair crashing backwards. “Who! Who is Dyfri being given to?”

His hands lift up and pull on his hair. “He is a rhocyn! Who would have him?”

Selwyn stares up at his brother in alarm. His brown eyes turn to me. I shrug and only allow the prince to see my deep concern and nothing else. Selwyn turns his attention back to his brother.

“I…um.” Selwyn says before stopping and clearing his throat. “The human British Prime Minister’s son. Humans don’t care that he is a rhocyn, they don’t even know what that is.”

Llywelyn draws in a deep, shuddering breath. Then he picks up his chair and sits back down. Acting as if nothing happened. He retrieves his wineglass, brings it to his lips, and drains it in one deep swallow. Then he turns his attention to his soup.

Selwyn looks at me, and I give him a look of bewilderment. He frowns and picks up his spoon.

“I shouldn’t have told you that. It is top secret, and I paid a hefty fee for it.”

Llywelyn’s elegant hand disappears into his silk robes and reappears with a large gold coin. He silently hands it to Selwyn. Who takes it with a grin and tucks it into the pocket of his waistcoat.

I want to shake my head. That has to be the most fey exchange I have ever seen.

“I didn’t ask you here to gossip about marriages,” he says genially.

“Why am I here, then?” Llywelyn asks calmly .

Selwyn busies himself with his soup. Silence falls. Nothing apart from the sound of cutlery against crockery.

These fucking fey are unbelievable. They are behaving as if Llywelyn’s outburst never happened.

Selwyn speaks so softly that I only just hear him. “We need to talk about Prys.”

“Why?” snaps Llywelyn without looking up.

“Because I’ve discovered that he is the poisoner you intercepted.”

Someone’s spoon clangs loudly. Dropped harshly into a bowl. It takes me a moment to realise it’s mine.

I look up and find the princes staring intensely at each other.

“And the intended target was Rhydian.”

Blindly, I reach for my wine. It is hard to get it to my lips because I am shaking so much. Eventually I manage it and I drain my glass.

Fucking hell.

I have enough puzzle pieces to see the picture, and it is making me sick. Prys is working on the same plan that I am.

Get rid of Rhydian. Replace him with Llywelyn.

That’s why Prys has been wooing Llywelyn. He wants his very own perfect puppet prince.

I pour myself some more wine.

This should be good news. I should be ecstatic. I should team up with Prys and work together on our shared goal. And then, once successful, get rid of him. Llywelyn is my puppet prince, no one else’s.

But the mere thought of it is making me sick. My skin is itching with disgust. Even though this reaction is completely irrational.

Oh my fucking god. What am I going to do? For the first time in my life, I’m worried about my professionalism.

I don’t think I can do this.