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Chapter thirty-seven

“ A re you sure you are well enough?” I ask.

Llywelyn looks up from fussing with his sleeve. “Why do you keep asking that?”

A strange whiny noise pours out of me and I hate it. “I don’t know. Maybe because you died in my arms three days ago and now you want to go to a party?”

Llywelyn blinks slowly. “You are worried about me?”

His golden eyes are full of disbelief. Bewilderment. I hate it. I never want to see him look like this. He should know how much I care. And I think, deep down, he does. It is just his upbringing and his fey nature that is preventing him from fully accepting it.

“I’m worried about you,” I state clearly.

He stares at me for a moment longer before going back to fiddling with his robes.

“I feel fine. The healers said I can resume my duties. I can’t miss Selwyn’s intended being presented to court.”

I frown. “I can’t believe that is still going ahead.”

Llywelyn shrugs. “The human mages disembowelled the would-be assassin and apologised.”

I shake my head in weary resignation. It is only fitting that human mages are as fucked up as the fey. They do carry their blood, after all.

It doesn’t make me any happier about this. The healers said Llywelyn could get out of bed. But I’d prefer it if he at least rested in his rooms for a few more days. I sigh and cross my arms over my chest.

“I have to go out,” insists Llywelyn. “I need to show my face, even though no one will acknowledge they can see me. I have to show I’ve recovered from the attack. To quell rumours.” He takes a sharp breath. “And to show I’m not cowed by the rumours Prys is spreading.”

He is right. I know he is. I have to stop whining.

Llywelyn finishes with his sleeve. He checks his reflection in the mirror, smooths the silks over his hips and then turns to go.

I step after him. Trailing in his footsteps.

“You don’t have to come?” he offers softly, over his shoulder.

“Like hell are you going alone!” I growl.

We reach the doors of our rooms. Llywelyn picks up my leash from the side table and I stand still while he attaches it to my collar.

He manifests his antlers, and then we stride out into the hallways of Buckingham Palace. I keep the prescribed three paces behind him. Hunching my shoulders a little. Ethan, the namaste dude, has mostly settled in. He knows his place, and he doesn’t mind it. He is cock-drunk for Prince Llywelyn.

We enter the throne room. All the princes, save Selwyn, are here. All looking magnificent and regal.

Llywelyn takes his place, standing on a low dais near to the throne. The last of the brothers. The prince furthest from Rhydian. I frown. This has to be intentional?

Even Dyfri, youngest son, rhocyn and half unseelie, is standing closer to the throne. I’m going to have to question Llywelyn on the significance of it later. I really hope it is not Rhydian sending a message because he knows something.

I file it away in my mind as something to deal with later, and I turn my attention to watching the room fill with fey nobles. A riot of colours and silks. Wings and hooves. Beings that not so very long ago, I believed only existed in fairytales.

My oh my, has my world changed. My gaze is drawn to Llywelyn. Some changes are wonderful. I have to admit that.

I force myself to look away. To pay attention to the crowd. But I’m not really seeing them. I’m thinking about Llywelyn. And how he has stolen my heart.

I’m almost grateful to the would-be assassin. I’m not sure if I would have faced the truth without being confronted with losing Llywelyn. My misunderstood, sorely misused, secretly sweet boy.

My heart thumps. Strong enough that I want to lift my hand and rub my chest. It’s okay, I whisper silently to my heart. We are going to keep him safe. We are going to give him the life he deserves.

Suddenly, trumpets blare and the fey court line up, creating an aisle all the way from the double doors to the throne.

The doors open, and Selwyn strides in, holding the hand of his intended. The boy looks good in fey robes. They are white, like a bride. Or a virgin sacrifice.

The human keeps his head down, hiding his face with his unusual snow-white hair. Despite his clear terror, he walks gracefully. More of a glide than a walk. He has clearly been training for this for a long time. Poor kid.

Selwyn leads him right up to the foot of the dais. The boy sweeps into an elegant curtsey. My eyebrows rise, then I remember. Pets, rhocyn, and consorts, all curtsey. It’s nothing to do with gender. It’s a form of genuflection that I have mostly escaped because my master is a resyn. I’m just as much a ghost as he is. Nobody acknowledges me, so I don’t need to curtsey to them.

Rhydian regally raises his hand, and utters some arcane proclamation that my translator cannot cope with. That’s fine. The gist is clear enough. Welcome, I accept you, you are now one of us. Or something along those lines.

The trumpets blare again, and the gathered crowd moves like the sea. Ripples of brightly coloured silk. Servants rush in with trays of drinks. Harp music begins to play and everything seamlessly flows into something akin to a cocktail party .

People standing in groups. Mingling. Chatting.

I blink. That’s it? No more ceremony? I know that wasn’t the wedding, merely the poor boy being presented. Even so, I expected more pomp. I never will get the hang of the fey.

Llywelyn steps off the shallow dais, grabs a drink from a passing server, and finds a quiet corner to stand in. I follow so closely behind that my leash nearly droops onto the floor.

I force myself to stand facing the crowd instead of watching Llywelyn. I wonder how long he needs to stay. I can already tell that he is itching to leave.

I watch the fey laughing, talking, smiling. Ignoring Llywelyn utterly. He might as well be a shadow on the wall or an item of furniture. My fists clench.

My gaze falls on Selwyn’s boy-bride-to-be. Standing quietly in the opposite corner. Being similarly ignored. Maybe I should get Llywelyn to approach him? No, that is a terrible idea. It is an awful social faux pas to acknowledge a resyn. I can’t inflict that on the poor innocent kid.

Abruptly, out of nowhere, Tae appears. He hurries up to Llywelyn and tugs on his sleeve. Llywelyn bends down and Tae whispers in his ear before fluttering off in a hurry.

Llywelyn straightens. His face is utterly blank. I sidle closer. “What did he say?”

“Prys is about to challenge Tristan to a duel,” Llywelyn whispers.

It’s a struggle to keep my face neutral. “That’s good, isn’t it? Tristan will whoop his ass.”

The red-haired prince is like a force of nature. Invincible and strong. He defeated Llywelyn. I can’t imagine the confident, jock-like Tristan losing at anything.

“No, Prys is far stronger.”

Before I’ve even had a chance to digest that piece of information, Llywelyn is moving. Striding across the throne room, all but dragging me behind him on my leash .

He marches right up to Prys.

“I need to talk to you!”

Prys’s little gaggle of admirers look uncomfortable and conflicted. A dirty resyn is daring to talk, yet on the other hand, this is prime juicy gossip.

Prys claims Llywelyn’s elbow and leads him a few steps away. His admirers watch with longing in their eyes, but none are brave enough to follow.

“I know your plan. Do not do this,” Llywelyn orders in his very best haughty tone.

Prys smiles. “I’m willing to do this to take care of you. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

Llywelyn draws himself up to his full height, but before he can speak, Prys cuts in.

“It was a clever move, taking that bullet for your brother. Now no one is going to suspect you of a thing. Now I can give you the throne you deserve and no one will ever know. It will be our little secret.”

His smile twists into something truly malevolent. He takes Llywelyn’s hand and brings it to his thin lips.

Llywelyn looks frozen, immobile. Good. I don’t want him to do anything stupid.

Prys drops Llywelyn’s hand. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Iestyn sends his regards.”

Prys winks. He turns sharply on his heels, giving Llywelyn his back. I gasp at the insult of the gesture. The sheer nerve and cruelty. Nobody heard the words. Everyone saw the action .

Then I watch in a daze as the blue-haired earl strides away. Towards Tristan who is laughing with a group of people while Ollie rolls his eyes.

My mind is wheeling. Floundering. I’m supposed to be quick, but this is a lot. No wonder poor Llywelyn looks thunderstruck. He looks like he has been slapped. Suddenly, he rouses himself with a jerky movement. Then he is running forward. I stumble after him. I see the gleam of a dagger, but there is no time to do anything.

With a shriek, Llywelyn launches forward. The dagger flashes, then it sinks into Prys’s back. The earl falls forward, landing on his face on the floor.

Llywelyn follows him down, straddling his back. He yanks the dagger out and stabs it into Prys’s flesh. Again and again. Sapphire blue blood is spraying everywhere.

Llywelyn lifts the dagger above his head with both hands and brings it down with all his strength. He keeps on going. Prys’s back is starting to look like blue pulp.

Llywelyn isn’t stopping.

Dimly, I’m aware of the circle formed around us. Of all of court watching. But they could be galaxies away for all I care.

I step forward and grab Llywelyn’s slender waist. I haul him off Prys’s body and set him on his feet, away from the corpse.

“Enough!” I say sternly.

Llywelyn glares at me with blazing eyes. His pale skin is splattered with blue.

“Why?” he hisses ferociously.

“Because you are still healing from a chest wound!” I snap.

Llywelyn blinks. Then his brow furrows. Finally, he chuckles wryly. The blue-soaked dagger falls to the floor with a loud thud.

Llywelyn breathes deeply. He drags his arm across his forehead, smearing the blue blood. When his golden eyes fix on me again, they are hazy. Unfocused. Exhausted. He sways a little.

I step forward and swoop him up into a bridal carry. He doesn’t resist. He rests his head against my shoulder and lets out a contented sounding sigh.

The crowd part like the sea before me. Nobody tries to stop us. Nobody is even making a sound. I think they are all still too shocked.

I pick up the pace and escape the throne room. I’m going to carry Llywelyn all the way back to his bed.

He never should have left it.