Page 75 of Storm of Shadows

“I bet your parents are proud of you,” Fly says and I can detect the smallest drop of bitterness in his tone.

Clare buffs one of the records with the end of her sleeve, removing several smudged fingerprints. “Well, yes, I guess they are.”

Fly sighs. “That must be nice.”

“It is,” she says halfheartedly.

“But?” I prompt.

She glances at us sheepishly. “It also comes with a ton of pressure. They’re expecting great things from me here in the academy. They like to tell me that frequently.”

“I’m not sure mine would care if I never came back,” Fly mumbles.

“How about you, Briony?” Clare asks softly.

“Would mine care if I came home or not? Hmmm.” I pick up one of the records and examine the decorative case. “My dad would maybe – that’s if he’s even noticed I’ve gone in the first place. My stepmom … I don’t know.” My first instinct is to think she must be pleased to be rid of me, an extra mouth to feed. Then again, perhaps she misses her punchbag and her little slave, and I never got a lot to eat anyway.

“Your stepmom?” Clara says. “What happened to your real mom?”

“She died. A long time ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Clare says.

“Don’t be. It was so long ago, I never even knew her.”

Fly picks a record from the pile. “This one,” he says. “It’s Saturday night. We need something to lighten the mood.”

I can’t help feeling he’s right because, despite all my protests I know I have very little choice but to show up once again at the Princes’ tower and I am not looking forward to it.

No, not one bit.

This time I don’t care what Fly and Clare say, I am not getting all dressed up just so I can sit around on my own in the Princes’ kitchen. In fact, this time I’m going for the complete opposite effect.

My uniform.

I hope it will say, ‘I care about you so little I couldn’t even be bothered to get changed.’

Although I wonder if the uniform is as awful as I thought it was, because when Beaufort Lincoln opens the door to me this evening, his eyes snake all the way down my body lingering at the flash of bare thigh between my long socks and my skirt. And I don’t know why but that has something fluttering low in my belly.

“I like the outfit, sweetheart.” I frown. “You’re on time,” he says with a smug grin that has me wanting to smack him in the face.

“Not willingly.”

“Yeah,” he says, taking my hand in his and pulling me inside. As always, his magic tingles against my skin sending those butterflies in my stomach crazy. I try to snatch my hand away but he hangs on to it tightly. “Willingly or not, you’re still here.”

Unsurprisingly, he leads me back into the kitchen. Is this the only place I’m going to be permitted?

I guess so. I am Slate Quarter scum after all. Not worthy enough to enter any of the other rooms.

A pout forms on my face. I wasn’t wrong about these men, about who they are and what they are capable of. Just because Beaufort has been gentle with me so far, means nothing. He’s playing with me, leading me into a false sense of security. As soon as he’s ready, he’ll crush me. Just like the shadow weavers always do with us commoners.

“Seeing as you enjoyed our food so much last time,” he continues, “we thought we’d arrange something a little more special this time.”

I peer across at the table and can’t help but gasp. A feast has been spread across the table; not only the cold meats, cheeses and breads that were here last time but pies and pastries and anarray of sweet-looking desserts I’ve never seen before. In fact, I think there may be chocolate – actual chocolate.

Dray Eros stands by the table munching on something that looks like a pork pie. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since I discovered the true identity of that wolf and my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“Hey, little thrall,” he says, “wanna come a little closer and sample our goodies?”