I was secretly grateful that it covered my Heir Mark.
I avoided looking in the mirror when I changed, these days. Partly because I looked like shit. But also because I hated—hated—to see that Mark. Vincent’s Mark. Every lie, seared into my skin in red ink. Every question I could never answer.
Covering the Mark was, of course, intentional. If I was going to be paraded in front of some kind of important Rishan people, I’d be expected to seem as nonthreatening as possible.
Fine.
A strange look flickered over Raihn’s face.
“It’s not closed.”
He gestured to his throat, and I realized that he meant the dress—in addition to the clasps in the front, there were buttons in the back, too, and I’d only managed to make it halfway up.
“Do you want me to—”
“No.”
I blurted it out fast, but in the seconds of silence that followed, I realized that I had no choice.
“Fine,” I said, after a moment.
I turned around, showing my greatest enemy my bare back. I thought to myself, wryly, that Vincent would be ashamed that I was doing such a thing.
But Mother, I would take a dagger over Raihn’s hands—would rather feel a blade than his fingertips brushing my skin, far too gently.
And what kind of a daughter did it make me, that despite everything, some part of me craved an affectionate touch?
I drew in a breath and didn’t let it out until he fastened the last button. I waited for his hands to move away, but they didn’t. Like he was thinking about saying something more.
“We’re late.”
I jumped at the sound of Cairis’s voice. Raihn pulled away. Cairis leaned against the doorframe, eyes slightly narrowed, smiling. Cairis was always smiling, but he was also always watching me very, very closely. He wanted me dead. That was fine. Sometimes I wanted me dead, too.
“Right.” Raihn cleared his throat. Touched the cuff of his sleeve.
Nervous. So nervous.
A previous version of myself, the one buried beneath the dozens of layers of ice I put between my emotions and the surface of my skin, would have been curious.
Raihn glanced over his shoulder at me, mouth twisting into a smirk, shoving his emotions down the same way I did.
“Let’s go, princess. We’ll give them a show.”
The throne room had been cleaned up since the last time I was here—artwork and decor replaced, floors cleared of the broken pieces of Hiaj artifacts. The curtains were open, revealing the silver-shrouded silhouette of Sivrinaj. It was calmer than it had been a few weeks ago, but little sparks of light occasionally burst through the night in the distance. Raihn’s men had gotten most of the inner city under control, but I could see clashes throughout the outskirts of Sivrinaj from my bedroom window. The Hiaj were not going down without a fight—not even against the House of Blood.
A twinge of something far beneath that ice—pride, maybe. Worry. I wasn’t sure. It was so hard to tell.
My father’s throne—Raihn’s throne—sat upon the center of the dais. Cairis and Ketura took up their places behind it, against the wall, dressed in their best fineries. Ever the dutiful guards. I assumed I would be there, too, in the single chair perched there. But Raihn took one look at it, cocked his head, and then dragged it up to place it beside the throne.
Cairis looked at him like he’d just lost his mind.
“You sure about that?” he said, quietly enough that I knew I wasn’t intended to hear.
“Sure am,” Raihn replied, turned to me, then motioned to the chair while taking his own, not giving Cairis the chance to disagree. Still, the advisor’s pursed lips said more than enough. As did Ketura’s ever-present dagger glare.
If I was supposed to be moved by this show of… of generosity, or kindness, or whatever the fuck this was supposed to be, I wasn’t. I sat and didn’t look at Raihn.
A servant poked her head in through the double doors, bowing as she addressed Raihn. “They’re here, Highness.”
Raihn glanced at Cairis. “Where the fuck is he?”
As if on cue, the scent of cigarillo smoke drifted through the air. Septimus strode in through the hall, ascending the dais in two long, graceful strides. He was followed by his two favorite Bloodborn guards, Desdemona and Ilia, two tall, willowy women who looked so similar I was certain they must be sisters. I’d never heard either of them speak.
“Apologies,” he said breezily.
“Put that out,” Raihn grumbled.
Septimus chuckled. “I hope you intend to be more polite to your own nobles than that.”