He’d presumed right. The idea of my every movement being watched by all those new, curious faces made me extraordinarily jumpy.
Luther motioned to two doors situated on either side of the corridor, one unguarded and the other flanked by four armed guards. “You can stay here until the royal suite is empty,” he said, gesturing to the manned door, then pointed at the other. “And these are my chambers. If you need anything, feel free to knock.”
Of course he would set me up somewhere he could hover close and keep watch.
I scanned the guards’ faces, relieved to find that none of them were the same Descended I had tussled with on my previous visits. My brows arched at Luther. “You really think this is necessary?”
“Until you accept my family’s offer—yes, I do.”
I shot him a pointed stare. “Are these guards aware the only resident of this palace that’s tried to kill me thus far is you?”
Judging from their shared expressions of unease, they were not.
Luther had the wisdom to look uncomfortable. “As I said, that was a misunderstanding.”
“You wanted to know if I killed the King.”
“I…” He tensed, seeming to hold back. “Yes.”
“And if I said I had? Would you have killed me then?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
His hands twitched at his sides, his fingers curving inward. “If my plan was to kill you, Diem, I wouldn’t stab you in secret. I’d take you on in the Challenging, where everyone could see it.”
It turned out I was not too tired to get angry after all.
My blood rose to a simmer. The mysterious voice inside me, the one that had been provoking my temper ever since I stopped taking the flameroot, shuddered as it stretched from its dormant coil.
Fight.
“First of all,” I clipped, “since you’ve always insisted on the importance of titles, you may refer to me as Your Majesty or my Queen.”
His mouth tightened. “Of course. Apologies, my Queen.”
“And why wait for the Challenging? I’ll take you on any day, any time, Prince.” I unsheathed a dagger from my hip and tilted its point toward him. “I’ve shed your blood once today. Why not make it twice?”
Luther’s temper snapped.
Quick as an asp, his hand wrapped around my wrist and yanked it forward, forcing me to stagger closer until the tip of my blade pressed to his chest. “What are you going to do with this ‘piece of tin,’ Your Majesty, trim my hair? I doubt it’s sharp enough even for that.”
To prove his point, he jammed the knife further. The edge sliced easily through the thick layers of his clothing—I kept my blades razor sharp, thank you very much—but my pride was short lived, as his skin only dimpled at the pressure.
“You need your other blade,” he scolded.
I made a show of dropping my eyes to my calf, hoping to trick him into believing I still had the Fortosian steel dagger sheathed in my boot.
Without releasing my wrist, he pulled back his jacket, revealing my lost dagger tucked into his belt.
“Looking for this?” he said, a taunting note to his tone.
I darted my free hand to grab it. Luther snatched that wrist as well, pinning it behind my back and using his grip to pull me closer. He kept my other hand steady, the point of the blade still pressed to his heart.
The guards gawked nervously, hands on their weapons, unsure how to react. Unsure which one of us they even needed to protect.
Fight.
The voice pushed me into action. My father’s training burst from my muscles in a familiar dance of movements. I twisted, rotating my arm until Luther’s grip was at too awkward an angle to maintain, and my wrist slipped free of his fingers.
So many of my father’s lessons had prepared me for this—out-manned in size, strength, and weaponry. In some ways, I was more comfortable taking on an enemy like Luther than a foe half my size.
But Luther was fast and well-trained in his own right. Hands and limbs went flying on both sides as he countered my strikes with ease. When we finally stilled, I wasn’t even sure what had happened.
My dagger clattered to the floor. My body was trapped against his, my back pressed flush to his chest. My right arm was twisted in his grip, the other immobilized at my side where his arm was strapped across my ribs.
A hot breath caressed my neck as he leaned down and whispered, “If I wanted you dead, Your Majesty, you would already be dead.”
A muffled, high-pitched screech reverberated through the halls, sounding as if it came from the King’s bedroom.
Sorae. I felt her panic ripple through the mental bond that connected us. She could sense that I was fighting—and losing.
One of the guards unsheathed his sword slowly, tentatively, looking as if he wasn’t sure whether the greater sin was interfering or staying put. “Sir?” he asked.
Luther ignored it all. The faint stubble on his chin tickled the sensitive curve of my shoulder, and my traitorous body arched in his arms. His grip tightened around my waist.
“Tell me how to prove to you that you can trust me,” he murmured, his lips grazing my skin.
“Trust you?” I choked, relieved to see that my temper had not surrendered to him as easily as my body had. “Are you out of your gods-damned mind?”
I pushed against his grip, but he didn’t budge.
Fight.
Gods, I wanted to murder him. Mostly for the embarrassment of being so easily bested, but the list of reasons was growing longer by the hour.
Mindful of the guards hanging on our every word, I dropped my voice low. “If it’s my trust you want, you can start by telling me where she is.”
He knew who I meant. His whole body stilled.
Sorae roared, and the walls of the palace shook with a shuddering boom. A cloud of dust trickled from the ceiling. Another enraged howl sounded a second later, followed by another.
Luther released his hold, and I stumbled away, snatching my mortal dagger from the ground.
“Call off Sorae,” he ordered.
“Bite me.”
“Call her off, or she’ll destroy the royal chambers trying to get to you.”
“Good. Let her smash this entire fucking palace.”
The walls rumbled with another blast of the gryvern’s wrath. Luther’s steely eyes narrowed. “Call Sorae off, and I’ll tell you what I can.”
I paused. “You’ll tell me where she is?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m at liberty to share. That’s the best I can offer.”
Though I glared at his carefully chosen words, I relented. My eyes closed as I reached out blindly into the darkness, where the gryvern’s presence floated somewhere in the abyss of my tangled mind.
I speared a thought in her direction: I’m not in danger.
The booming stopped, replaced by an unhappy trill. I sensed her reticence—she wanted to see me and confirm for herself I was unhurt.
I’m safe, I told her. It was just an argument.
Across the bond, her panic ebbed in favor of grumbling acceptance.
I looked at Luther expectantly. “Well?”
“Tomorrow.” He gritted his teeth at my answering look of outrage. “It’s late and neither of us is in the right state of mind.”
“If you don’t keep your word, Luther Corbois, you’re gryvern food.”