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Wolfgang’s mouth forms into a mocking grin. “To your point?”
“I need the space,” I retort.
He slowly crosses his arms over his bare chest as we continue to stare at one another.
I’m bracing myself for a never-ending showdown when, to my surprise, Wolfgang sighs dramatically and concedes. “Fine, you tiresome brute,” he says through gritted teeth, “but the bathhouse is mine.”
He clips my shoulder as he passes me, heading for the door. I turn, tracking his exit. “Why would Mount Pravitia have a bathhouse?” I say in mock derision.
Swiveling around, he leans his hands on either side of the doorway, his abs rippling with the strain. His eyes narrow, a burning stare pinning me to the spot.
“Do you forget that the Vainglorys once ruled Pravitia from these very rooms?” he asks. His gaze trails down my body, then back up. “How could you? It’s how our feud started in the first place.” Pushing himself off the doorway, he gives me one last peeved look before walking away. “Only now, I have a legitimate reason to hate you.”
18
MERCY
Irouse to angry rain pattering against the windows, thunder rumbling somewhere in the distant Pravitia cityscape. Sundae lets out a low whine and tries to bury her wet nose under my arm. With my eyes still closed, I gently shush her, blindly finding her warm body and patting her reassuringly on the stomach.
“It’s just thunder, silly beast,” I mumble.
It’s been raining all week. It began the night I moved into Mount Pravitia and hasn’t let up since. It’s as if the gods are as disappointed in us as I am with myself. I’m usually not bothered by anything as insignificant as the weather, but it has left me … on edge. The dogs have been restless ever since we relocated. Being forced into new surroundings, paired with the unrelenting thunderous rain, means they’ve kept me up most nights. Especially when I haven’t had the time to take them back to the Grounds for our nightly walks in the family cemetery.
They don’t like change.
And neither do I.
But here I am, the purveyor of my own life-altering circumstances.
Sundae continues to nudge me, and I audibly groan into my silk pillows. Pushing myself up, I sit and throw my legs over the side, squinting toward the windows to find the sun barely risen and blanketed by heavy clouds. The sound of claws against wood makes me turn my head to find Éclair and Truffles near the door, pawing to be let out.
With a sleepy sigh, I put on my open-toe feathered slippers and don my chiffon robe over my nightgown before letting them out. The door is hardly opened before they bound through the enfilade and disappear, Sundae not bothering to move from her spot in bed.
Taking the time to freshen up in the ensuite, I inspect the wound on my arm. It’s still sore but healing, and no longer needs a bandage. Surely, it will leave a scar and I press my lips together at the thought that Wolfgang has managed to leave a permanent mark on my skin.
I don’t bother to change before I give my thigh a quick pat, followed by a short whistle commanding Sundae to follow me out of the ruler’s chambers. Her head pops up from where it’s been resting on her large front paws, ears perked up before she jumps down and trots up to my side.
Walking through and out of the enfilade, I head into the East Wing. It’s still quiet this early in the morning, the drum of the rain dulling the bustling sounds of the servants only now beginning to set up for their morning duties.
Entering the atrium where breakfast is served, I stutter to a stop when I notice a lone figure sitting at the head of the large oak table, the dark clouds outside the floor-to-ceiling windows casting a long shadow over his body.
“What are you doing with my dogs?”
Wolfgang lets the corner of his newspaper fall, his blue-gray eyes slowly lifting to where I’m standing. Even at this hour, his brown hair is perfectly coiffed, beard trimmed and manicured.The scratch marks I left on his cheek are fading, but it pleases me to see his face still scarred just the same. He’s wearing another one of his smoking jackets, his chest bare underneath.
His assessment of me is quick, but I do notice the dip of his gaze to my open robe. I cross my arms, but his eyes still linger a second too long on my short nightgown before he tilts his head to the side of his chair where both Éclair and Truffles are sitting, tails wagging.
Traitors.
Straightening back up, his attention returns to whatever article he’s reading—most likely about himself—before he rasps, “I have nothing to do with those things.” He takes a slow sip of tea. “Fiendish creatures, just like their mother.”
My irritation spikes but I let his comment fade into the sound of the rain, now echoing louder against the countless windows of the atrium. I had the fortune of avoiding him at breakfast all week, but I see my luck has finally run out. Crossing paths outside of mandatory meetings was bound to happen. Still, the familiar aggravation when around him buzzes under my skin.
I walk to the opposite end of the table and sit, black tea poured and served before I even have time to call the dogs to my side, except for Sundae who is already settling at my feet under the table.
“The usual,” I say to whoever is serving me while reaching for a copy of the Pravitian Digest. I typically don’t bother with the news, especially when I know that the Vainglorys are behind every single word circulating in the city’s news cycle.
Their family’s power isn’t as straightforward as people care to think. It’s notsimplythe power of persuasion and glamor—like how he hypnotized those six Pravitians during the Feast of Fools.
