Page 93 of The Midnight Princess

Jacob doesn’t say a word but releases Pietor with a brutal shake. If thevailysis willing to step one foot down, he won’t fall, but Pietor refuses to give an inch. His arms windmill, and he skids down three shallow steps, landing on his back in a splash of gravel.

Swiping dust from his trousers, he jerks his clothes into order and smooths his hair. “He’s a piece of garbage, Alma. He can’t protect you. His title is worthless.”

He half turns to go, then charges Jacob, catching him in the midsection, and ripping his hair loose. Jacob grabs him off, lands a punch, and blood gushes from Pietor’s nose.

“Bastard,” he spits, crimson specks dotting the steps. “Do you know who my father is? You think I can’t take you down? You’re going to be a laughingstock when I’m through.” He delivers this to Jacob, walking backward, and slams into his car.

The engine pings to life, and the threat penetrates my brain. There was malice in Pietor’s words, and he has the power to back them up.Stultes es.What have I let happen? Stupid pride. All I had to do was swallow Pietor’s insults and show him out. Now Jacob is his target.

Pietor’s electric sports car whirrs into the distance, and Jacob brushes his sleeves, raking the hair back. This is my fault. I had forgotten how high the stakes are.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs with a laugh. “I had to take out the, er,svet.”

I want to burst into tears. “You can’t do that,” I shout. “Ever. You’re not a private citizen. This has consequences.”

“Even when he called youvrou—? Well, I don’t know what it was supposed to be, but it can’t be nice.”

It isn’t. “I’ve been called worse.”

His expression darkens, eyes lit with deadly fire. “By who?”

Vede, he’s taking names. “Whom.”

27

Roslav Cathedral

JACOB

At first, Alma tries to reason with me.

“You can’t engage in behavior like that,” she argues, her voice loud and tight. She paces our sitting room, running out of space and striding back.

“He was asking for it. This dirt weasel barges into your palace and calls you—”

“Stop. Stop.” She holds a hand up. “I don’t care about your reasons. Think about what you owe to your people. Markets are going to go haywire every time you form a grudge. You’ll be an embarrassment instead of a diplomatic asset.Vede, Jacob, don’t throw this away because you can’t swallow a few insults.”

At this moment, all I want to do is get rid of my title. What has being a crown prince ever given me?

Nothing but my mother’s peace. Nothing but knowing Alma.

Chol. Chol nia.

“You can’t let people treat you like there’s no line you won’t let them cross,” I counter. Surely her people would understand that. Vorburgian people would. Not sure about soft Handselites.

“He has the power to hurt you,” she says, voice shaking.

Who cares? I would have shrugged off anything Pietor said about me. But he attacked Alma. “I’ve got twenty-five pounds on him that say otherwise.”

She bangs a fist into the sofa and growls her frustration. She thinks I’m stupid. I think Pietor shouldn’t have started something if he didn’t want me to finish it.

“He wasn’t bluffing. I don’t know what weapon he’ll use, but he has one, and you just begged him to use it.”

I reach for her fist, working it free with my thumb. It loosens, but she turns her face away. Weak winter sun shines through the mullioned windows, and dust motes dance in the light. I hear her sniff.

“Alma. Don’t ask me not to fight for you,” I say, my voice rough.

She breathes in and out, a slow cycle, then drags her hand away, slams through her bedroom door, and shoots the bolt home for good measure.