Page 15 of Of Rime and Ruin (Sirens of Adria #2)

Chapter thirteen

Aethan

Fuck it. If I spend one more evening sucked into that sight-pool, obsessing over that damn siren , I’m going to blow my steam. I’ll take my dinner in the dining room tonight. Like a functioning member of society.

I pound on the door, and the stationed guard unlocks it. He opens the door partway, poking his narrow face through the gap. His lips quiver.

“But Your Majesty, you said under no circumstances should I listen to you if—”

“Ignore what I said.” I cut him off with a raised fist. The door opens.

As I turn the corner in the hallway, I narrowly miss Deirdre carrying my dinner tray. She stops short, stabilizing the tray to avoid dumping the contents. A bowl of soup, a steaming lump of bread, a butter dish, and a cup of tea. She dips into a quick curtsy, and the tea sloshes.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I say, to assuage her questioning look. “And I’m afraid I confused my guard.”

She glances over my shoulder. “I see that, Sire.”

Balancing the tray on one hand, she mops the spilled tea with a spare napkin from her apron, then frowns at the sogging roll. I try to apologize for the mess, but she dismisses it with a wave of her hand.

“Nonsense. Shall we set a place for you in the dining hall this evening?”

I nod, and we follow the corridor out of the West Wing and down the parlor staircase in cautious silence.

The dining hall, like the rest of the castle, is a modest tribute to darkwood timber framing.

While it’s more rustic than the glittering grandeur of my childhood home, the style has its charm.

Rough-hewn imported lumber. Functional furniture with the smallest touch of artistry, like the large table in the center.

Iron florals wrap around the thick wooden legs, giving it an effortlessly regal appearance.

My family used this place in the warm season for entertainment, mostly, to give the royals a chance to stretch their land-legs and dance under the moon. With a few minor adjustments for year-round accommodation, it’s been serving my needs just fine.

Deirdre arranges my meal at the head seat, then lights the iron candelabra. Steam wafts with the smell of herbs and glacierweed. Roasted silverfish floats in the broth. My stomach gurgles.

“Anything else I can bring you, Sire?”

“That’ll be all, Deirdre. Thank you.” I dip into the soup with my spoon.

My housekeeper hesitates.

“Perhaps something for dessert later,” I add.

“Thought so.” She chuckles. “How does a piece of cinnamon cake sound?” Deirdre leaves without waiting for my response.

The fish wedges tight in my throat, and I cough. I reach for my water, gulping it to clear the obstruction.

And there she is, Nahlani kneeling before my mind’s eye with her mocking mouth, saying, What kind of monster are you?

I’m up here, warm and cozy with a bowl of soup and cake on the way, while she’s freezing in my dungeon. I stare into the bowl, disgusted by its contents.

I am Princess Nahlani Mahelona, second heir of the Brine. I have a few rules for you.

The fight in this female is strong. Princess or spy, I have to hand it to her—she’s got spunk. My mouth quirks into a smile.

“Not hungry?” Deirdre’s skirts hiss across the floor. I turn to see her enter with a plate of cinnamon cake. She sets it next to my untouched soup, then props her fists on her hips.

I grunt, eyeing the cake as my throat fills with bile.

“Hard to believe,” she presses.

I avoid her questioning gaze.

“May I?” She pulls a chair from the table. I nod, and she sits. “Your Majesty. About this princess.”

“Spy,” I correct, “claiming to be a princess.” I can hear the doubt in my voice.

She sighs. “I can find her in the royal directory, if you’d like.

” Deirdre fishes in the pocket of her apron, retrieving a tablet.

She brushes its surface to activate the inscribed spell.

“Princess Nahlani, sister to Queen Winona, second daughter to Jovan and Geena. Two and a half decades old as of this warm season. Golden fins. Bronze skin. Brown eyes and curly hair.” She lifts her gaze from the book. “Ring a bell?”

Twenty-five? She’s practically a youngling. I scoff and tell Deirdre so.

“Not much younger than your thirty years, Sire.”

I lift my fork and skewer the tip of the cinnamon cake. It melts in my mouth, and I swallow my groan. This isn’t helping.

“You know what I think, love? Cut this dungeon act. Give her an upper room like she requested. She’ll be here a while, no? Unless you plan to send her home?”

“No. Never.”

She can’t leave now. She’s seen too much.

“And how long do you think you can hold this princess, before the Brine comes looking?”

“Did I ask you to join me, Deirdre?” I snap. “Or are you going to leave me to eat in peace?”

“Is that what you’re doing? Eating?” She nudges my abandoned soup closer. “You can’t leave a foreign princess to rot in our dungeon. It’s a bad look.”

“She doesn’t belong here. I will not coddle her. I will not let her inside my keep so the Brine can poison my tea.” I tip my mug, sniffing for ailments. “Now, that would be a bad look. Is that what you want, Deirdre? Another corpse on your hands?”

She flinches, and I bite my tongue with instant regret. That was too far. It was just this week I severed her nephew’s foot.

Deirdre straightens her apron. “All she asked for was a few simple comforts, Your Majesty. If you intend for her to stay awhile, then maybe…”

I sigh. “You want me to make her comfortable?”

“She is our guest.”

“And I am the king.”

She’s not taking my shit. With a cocked eyebrow, she leans closer. “Assign Perrin to watch the princess. It’ll give him something to do, at least. He’s been having an easier time swimming than walking, with that foot.”

My gut twists, and I blow the air out of my cheeks.

Deirdre slaps the table with the flat of her hand twice before standing. “Perrin?” she calls out.

The door cracks open, and her nephew hobbles inside on a pair of wooden crutches. He fumbles with them, making his way forward with excruciating awkwardness. A bandage wraps around his stump leg, hanging in a listless reminder of what I’ve done.

I am a monster. Fucking hell.

The young guard blushes under my scrutiny and does his best to stand tall, wedging the crutches deeper into his armpits.

I clear my throat. “Have you been stationed in the dungeons before?”

“No, Sire.” His voice trembles. “But I can learn, Sire.”

“You’re aware of the protocol, at least? No friendliness. No foolery. You sit there and make sure the prisoner doesn’t escape. You’ll have a set of keys. Don’t lose them.”

“I can do that, Sire. No problem.”

“All right.” I run a hand over my face to smooth the tension twitching in my jaw. “You start tomorrow. Day shift.”

Perrin glows, his mouth stretching in a tusky grin. “I can do it, Sire. Thank you, Sire!”

Deirdre squeezes her nephew’s shoulders and steers him to the door. After one more smug glance, she departs with an exaggerated curtsy.

As if she didn’t just deflate my ego in a matter of minutes.