He said a shade quietly, “Go ahead and ask.”
“Do you ever wonder?” she blurted. “What might have happened if you hadn’t sent your goons to hunt us down, or hadn’t tossed me to the curb when I was thirteen?”
His eyes flickered. “Every single day.”
“Then why?” Her voice cracked a bit. “You hit her, and then felt bad about it—you still feel bad about it. Yet you hunted us down, nearly killed her in the process. And when I showed up years later, you were nice to me for, like, two days before you kicked me out.”
“I don’t answer to you.”
She shook her head, disgust chasing away any trace of appetite. “I don’t get it—get you.”
“What is there to get? I am a king. Kings do not need to explain themselves.”
“Fathers do.”
“I thought you wanted nothing to do with me.”
“And that hasn’t changed. But why not be a nice fucking person?”
He stared at her for a long, unbearable moment with that look she knew she so often had on her own face. The expression she’d inherited from him, cold and merciless.
He said, “Here I was, thinking you had a real father in Randall Silago and didn’t have any need of me whatsoever.”
She nearly dropped her plate. “Are you—are you jealous of Randall?”
His face was like stone, but his voice hoarsened as he said, “He got your mother in the end. And got to raise you.”
“That sounds awfully close to regret.”
“I have already told you: I live with that regret every day.” He surveyed her, the plate of food in her hands. “But perhaps we might eventually move past it.” He added after a moment, “Bryce.”
She didn’t know what to feel, to think, as he spoke her name. Without her last name attached, without any sort of sneer. But she cleared her throat and replied, “You help me find a way to get Hunt and Ruhn out of the Asteri dungeons, and then we can talk about you becoming a better dad.” She said the last words as she stepped around him, heading for her bedroom. Even if she no longer wanted to eat, she needed to put some distance between them, needed to think—
Her father called after her, “Who said Athalar and Ruhn are still in the dungeons? They haven’t been since this morning.”
Bryce halted and turned slowly.
“Where are they?” Her voice had gone dead—quiet. The way she knew his voice went when his temper flared.
But her father only crossed his arms, smug as a cat. “That’s the big question, isn’t it? They escaped. Vanished into the sea, if rumor is to be believed.”
Bryce let the words sink in. “You … you let me think they were in the dungeons. When you knew all along they were free.”
“They were in the dungeons when you arrived. Their status has now changed.”
“Did you know it was about to change?” White, blinding fury filled her head, her eyes. Even as part of her wondered if he, too, had needed some distance between them after their conversation, and revealing this truth … it was his best way to shove her away again.
“I answered your questions, as you stipulated. You asked where the Asteri took them after your encounter. I told you the truth. You didn’t ask for an update today, so—”
One heartbeat, the plate and sandwich were in her hands. The next, they were hurling through the air toward his head. “You asshole.”
Her father blasted away both plate and food with a wall of fire. Cinders of crisped bread and meat fell to the floor among shards of broken ceramic.
“Such tantrums,” he said, surveying the mess on the carpet, “from someone who just learned her brother and mate are free.”
“How about this,” Bryce seethed, hating the gorsian shackles around her wrists more than ever. “You let me go right now, and I’ll toss your ass straight through a portal and into the original Fae world. Go pack your bags.”
He chuckled. “You’ll bring me to that Fae world whether I let you go or not.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I hear your mother and Randall have adopted a son. It’d be a shame if something happened to the boy.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t come crying to me when Mom and Randall kick your ass. They did it once—I’m sure they’ll be happy to remind you what they’re capable of.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t be me darkening their doorstep.” He smirked, wholly confident. “A whisper to Rigelus, let’s say, of your parents harboring a rebel boy …”