Slade locks eyes with me, finding me in the middle of the crowd, and maybe he can see the fear in my face, because whatever power was brewing inside of him stutters to an instant stop. The nauseous effect of his magic cuts off at the stem, the furrowing floor ceasing its rooting rumble.
The soldiers take advantage of the pause and close in on him, and dread spikes down my spine. He’s going to push and push until Slade snaps. Midas wants him to break the treaty, dissolve the alliance, back Slade into a corner.
“Take him!” Midas shouts, just as Osrik lets out a vicious bellow, a sword held in each hand.
“Stop!” I shove my way past the rest of the people, plowing straight through the line of gilt guards. They balk at my intrusion and then immediately back away, ensuring they don’t touch me, though they don’t lower their swords.
Within seconds, I’m standing in front of Slade like a shield, chest heaving. “Don’t touch him.”
My shout is for the crowd, but my words are for Midas.
We’ve locked eyes, both of us on opposite ends of the dais. There might be hundreds of spectators, but all I see is him.
“What are you doing, Auren?” Midas nearly hisses. “Get away from him right now and come to me.”
I give him a slow shake of my head. “Never.”
Never again.
A tic appears in Midas’s jaw.
“I won’t let you take him too.”
He’s taken everything else from me, just like he promised. He even took our past. But I won’t let Midas take Slade.
So caught up in my stare-off with Midas, I almost forgot about the male at my back. A dark, forbidding voice slips out from between his lips and tangles down my spine. “Auren…”
“Don’t use your magic,” I beg, glancing at Slade over my shoulder. “It’s what he wants, to make you even more hated and feared. Don’t give that to him.”
“He deserves no less.”
“No, but you deserve more,” I murmur.
A rigid tension fits between my shoulder blades, but it isn’t fear as I take a public stand against Midas. We are inherently protective of our lives, to do whatever we have to do to make it through. It’s an inner instinct, and one I’ve always followed. Biologically, we are meant to preserve, to survive. But surviving isn’t my intent at this moment. Right now, I want to fight.
“Lower your swords away from my favored!” Midas shouts, making the guards flinch, blades drooping.
“I’m not your favored,” I declare, not caring that we have a crowd, not caring that Queen Kaila is staring daggers at me or that her brother is looking at me with something like pity. “King Ravinger didn’t kill Prince Niven. You did.” My voice cracks like a whip, ripping out gasps from the onlookers.
Midas’s eye twitches, twin patches of red bursting across furious cheeks. “Clear the room!”
There’s a shocked pause, and then various soldiers start to push the crowd back to empty the ballroom. But the people are resistant and angry at being ordered away. They’re too caught up in the spectacle, wanting to watch this play out, wanting to know who’s really at fault.
“Who killed our prince?” someone demands.
“We deserve to know!”
More shouts lift up like a chorus, their voices growing belligerent as the guards start using more force to shove them out.
Midas begins to stalk forward but jerks to a stop again when the Wrath close in around me. Not in threat, but in protection. Slade has stepped closer too, the heat of his chest burning against my back.
That one simple move makes something ugly appear in Midas’s eyes. Realization seems to dawn as he looks between Slade and me, and maybe my previous words finally sink in. I won’t let you take him too.
And I won’t, because—
“He’s mine.” My voice is strong, unwavering. Just a vicious growl of protective fury.
A wicked satisfaction purrs in my chest at the hateful shock on Midas’s face.
“It was him?” he accuses, tone bitten out between his clenched teeth.
“Like I tried to tell your torturer, it sure wasn’t me.”
Everyone whips their heads around to see Fake Rip walking forward with a stumbling Digby slung at his side.
My eyes widen, heartbeat faltering. Not just at the sight of my guard up and out of that awful room, but for the first time ever, Fake Rip’s helmet is nowhere to be seen.
Though he still wears the rest of his spiked armor, his face is finally visible. My gaze runs over him with greedy curiosity, entranced by the pale skin, the scruff of his jaw, the angles of his face, and I’m instantly struck by the familiarity.