White Horse Black Nights (The Godkissed Bride, #1)(82)

His eyes gleam oddly as his head cocks. A long beat passes before he says, “He told you his real name? What else did Basten say?”

There’s an odd note in his voice. I realize I might have said the wrong thing. I don’t want Rian to suspect anything happened between the two of us. As much as I want to hurt Basten, I realize now that I’d be stabbing myself in the foot, too. For better or worse, I need Rian to like me. Until I can figure out a plan, I need to play his games, and keep my food and safety secure.

Fortunately, I’m spared by a demanding rap at the door. The wine jostles in our glasses. I jump.

Rian’s brows lower, displeased. He barks loudly, “What is it?”

But his demeanor changes when an older man enters.

He’s around my father’s age, with the same graying hair and lines on his face, but the comparison ends there. The years have diminished my father. This man seems to have only strengthened with age like petrified wood. His height is imposing, as is his doublet made of leather and ultrafine chainmail. On most people, decorative armor is merely a shiny accent—on him, it’s a threat.

“Lady Sabine,” Rian says like he’s tasted something bitter. “This is my father, Lord Berolt.”

Fear weighs me down like an armful of boulders as the man looks me over purposefully like a filly at auction. He might not be High Lord of Duren in name anymore, after having turned over that title to Rian, but it’s painfully clear that this man still wields massive power.

His first words to me are an order. “Show me your godkiss, girl.”

My first instinct is to look to Rian for help; Rian, who’s the last person I’d consider an ally. But the sheer menace of his father has me scrambling for any straws.

“My—my godkiss?”

“Yes. A demonstration. I want to see your power with my own eyes.”

“Father,” Rian says in a low, tight voice. “Lady Sabine just survived a vicious abduction; perhaps we don’t immediately thrust her up on stage?”

“Nonsense. Show me, girl.”

My chest fills with lead as I slowly pick up a crumbly piece of tart crust with shaky fingers.

Come here, little mouse. I’ll share my food with you.

The mouse scampers across the floor in cautious bursts, pausing to sniff the air. He makes a wide arc around Berolt’s feet to where the treat rests in my palm.

“There,” Rian says curtly. “See what you need?”

Berolt grunts, dissatisfied. “I want to see her command something bigger. One of the army’s hounds. Or better yet, one of the tigers. And no offering it food—I could lure a mouse with a pear tart.”

My nerves don’t go away, but they’re rapidly being eclipsed by anger. Who does this man think he is, to command me like a puppet? I’m to be his daughter-in-law, not his servant.

I’m about to risk the dungeon and tell the mouse to piss on this man’s shoe, when Rian rests a hand on my knee and squeezes. I pause. The touch is a signal: Don’t.

“I’ll arrange something,” Rian says with purposeful vagueness. “Now, there’s the engagement party to plan, so if you’re done extending a warm welcome to my bride—”

“I’m not.” Lord Berolt snaps his fingers. “Stand up, girl. I want to see exactly what my son’s coin has bought him.”

Before I can object—if I even dared—Lord Berolt seizes my arm and drags me to my feet. His wrinkled hand feels the contours of my hips and stomach, manhandling me like livestock. My thoughts lurch to a halt. Bile rises on my tongue, the bad taste enduring no matter how many times I try to swallow it down.

“She’s ripe,” Berolt says. “She might give me a godkissed grandchild. You should start on that soon, Rian.”

My mouth forms into a stunned “o,” so aghast at this man’s crassness that I’m entirely speechless.

Rian, clearly used to such behavior, pops a spiced nut into his mouth and murmurs, “I should like to get to know my bride first.”

Berolt gives a derisory snort. “Hurry, or with a pretty thing like her, I have half a mind to do the job myself.”

I actually gag, but at the last minute, am able to mask the sound as a cough. Fucking gods! And I thought Rian was the one to worry about. Now I see that disease is most rampant at the base of the family tree. I’m reminded of something Basten said. A terrible rumor that Lord Berolt killed Rian’s mother when Rian was born without a godkiss, contradicting what the fortune tellers predicted.

Is that the great mystery of why Rian chose me as his bride, despite essentially ignoring me at the Preview? They think because I’m godkissed, I can give them godkissed Valvere children? There are ample godkissed women, but not many among Astagnon’s nobility. If Rian wanted a godkissed bride of noble birth, there were only a handful of options.

Rian’s jaw tightens as his father’s hand wanders further up my belly toward my chest. Rian shoots to his feet, knocking a silver fork off the table. He’s of formidable height as well.

“Oh—about the incident at Titan’s Taverna,” Rian says, his tone seamlessly switching to business as his body herds his father away from me and toward the door. “I overheard that Theo Laganon is back in the bottle. I thought we might post a few undercover sentinels at the pub next time . . . ”