Page 25 of Of Rime and Ruin (Sirens of Adria #2)

Chapter twenty-three

Aethan

“Does my hair look okay?” I ask Deirdre as she refills my tea. Any moment, the princess will walk through that door, and I find myself eager to look presentable. Kingly.

When was the last time I brushed my hair? This morning?

The housekeeper assesses me, lifting the kettle to stop the pour, then narrows her eyes. “You look handsome as always, Sire. Why?”

Why, indeed. It’s silly to look nice for her. For a prisoner. An enemy.

But she’s not the enemy. Not really.

She’s a lost princess trapped in my dungeon because I’m terrified by the thought of hurting her.

Fuck.

I tug at the fabric of my shirt, appalled by the way it clings to my skin. “Excellent,” I mutter.

Deirdre tips the kettle again and hot water splashes into my cup. Steam curls, and the scent of peppermint wafts.

In mere seconds, she’ll be here. Finally. And then I’ll stand, like a fucking gentleman, and apologize for being an asshole. She shouldn’t go hungry on my account.

And I shouldn’t either. My stomach grumbles, protesting the delay of my meal.

What’s taking so long?

“Just be yourself.” Deirdre’s mouth quirks into a smile.

“I don’t want to scare her,” I grumble.

“Be yourself, minus all the…” She searches for the right word. “Growling.”

Footsteps approach, echoing through the hallway. A shuffle and a hop, then a scrape of wood.

I rise from my seat and fold my hands in front of me. But no, that’s too formal. I unlace them, then clench my hands into fists. Too stiff. I cross my arms. Too angry.

Dammit.

I clasp my hands behind my back and square my shoulders, ready.

Perrin enters the room, propped on a wooden crutch beneath his right armpit. He wears the Frost Guard uniform, the shirt rumpled and still damp. His pant leg ties in a knot beneath the amputation. His eyes dart, avoiding my gaze.

I take a steady breath, letting the guilt wash over me.

“Your Majesty,” he greets me, tipping his head.

The hallway behind him is dark and quiet. I wait for his companion to enter, but she does not come.

“Where is she?”

“She’s, uh—” His lip trembles. “She’s not coming.”

“Not coming?”

“Paddledrake flu?” It comes out as a question, like he’s not sure he gave the right answer.

I snort. “Is that so?”

“Deadly contagious, Sire. She wouldn’t want you to catch it. Boils on her cough. Bad face.” He coughs, as if to demonstrate.

“Pity. I’ll send the healer momentarily, and then she can join me for dinner. Shouldn’t take him long to fix a little…” My lips twitch. “Flu.”

Perrin’s throat bobs, and I hear him swallow. Hard.

“She is sick, yes?” I say. “I’d hate to send Lucas for nothing.”

I step closer, hating that I have to resort to intimidation tactics with him. His eyes widen and he drops his gaze to my feet.

Perrin nods slowly, then he shakes his head. The tips of his ears darken.

“I thought not,” I grunt. “Bring her here, Perrin. By order of your king.”

He looks up, torn. “And if she doesn’t want to come with me?”

I close my eyes briefly and pinch the bridge of my nose. I’ve known he’s soft, but this soft? He’s as bad as his aunt. “Then use a little force, Perrin. You can do that, no?”

He nods again, then turns to leave.

Next to me, Deirdre releases a heavy breath. “That went well,” she says in a strained tone.

“What was I supposed to do, believe him?” I slump into my seat and cross my arms to muffle the sinking feeling in my stomach. “Paddledrake flu? Right.”

She frowns, but otherwise lets it drop. “I’ll bring you something to snack on while you wait, Sire.” She hurries from the room, skirts hissing around her feet.

Silence settles in the dining hall, except for the crackle in the hearth as the flame licks logs to ash. The long table stretches before me, each chair empty but mine.

Alone.

I smooth my hair, retie the knot, and press my hands flat to the table.

Anxiety swirls in my gut, and I chase it with hot tea.

Should I practice? If I know what I’m going to say to her, it won’t be so hard in the moment.

I clear my throat, testing a few options. Then I nudge the mug, centering it before me, as a stand-in for the princess.

“Hey there, Princess.” My voice is whiny and strained. The mug says nothing. Will she say nothing? Or will she lob more insults? Sweat prickles my scalp.

“Uh, sorry I thought you were a spy. I can see now you’re too delicate for that. Are you hungry? Cold? Well, there’s food here. And I got you a cloak. I don’t have it here though. It’s in my room. I could show you later.”

I drop my face into my palms before it can get worse. What the fuck was that? Why did I mention the cloak? I hid it in my wardrobe for good reason.

It’s not for her.

That cloak was a lapse in judgment, and I will return it in the morning.

With a long pull of tea, I wet my throat and try again. This time, I turn the mug, so the handle faces me. Kind of like a nose.

“Hi. Hope you’re hungry,” I croak. “This is me, admitting I’m a jackass. Friends?”

Fuck no.

Friends?

What kind of line is that?

I drop my forehead to the table and thump it a few times. This. Will. Not. Do.

I should send for that damn frostcat cloak. She’s a female. Females like gifts. It might help—

“And then say what, asshole?” I counter my thoughts, twisting my voice into a mockery of itself. “I wondered if I gave you this cloak, you could stay here with me and stop flirting with all my guards.”

That’s it. I’m officially losing my mind.

I push out of my chair, and its legs scrape on the floor. One foot before the other, I pace.

Where is she?

I make three turns about the room before I hear Perrin. I strain my ears to listen for a companion.

He comes alone.

I ball my fists and clench my teeth. The knot of rage in my stomach threatens to burst.

When he appears in the doorway, it takes all my strength not to glare.

His voice is soft. Scared. “She’s not coming. I’m sorry, Sire. She said she’s not hungry.”

Not hungry?

When last I saw her, she complained of me starving her. She called me a bad host. What the fuck does she mean not hungry ?

“Not hungry?” My resolve breaks. The ice pierces my veins, and the scales crawl.

Perrin trembles, trying hard to hold his ground. Deirdre appears behind him. She steps in front of the youngling, shielding him with her body.

“Your Majesty, deep breaths,” she cautions. “I have your snack here. Let’s eat, okay?”

Her words come muffled—like sound through water.

“She’s not hungry? Impossible.” I snap my teeth together. I flex my hand, and ice skitters across the floor. “If the princess doesn’t eat with me , then she will starve. That’s an order.”