Page 39
“What is today’s schedule?” he asked wearily.
“The countess’s council convenes within the hour to finalize preparations for the masquerade. There has been an important change—a new courtesan for your bed, sire.”
So, there was more between Anileta and Aurelion’s pawn than met the eye.
Lucan climbed the stairs two at a time, now desperate to get this evening over with. He hated all these displays of opulence the court insisted upon. “Oh, it’s been so long since the last masquerade,” Anileta had whimpered in his ear for months. So now here he was, stuck with the insufferable ladies of the court planning an evening of silk and lacquer, pretending masks somehow made them civilized.
“Has the countess arrived yet?”
The steward hesitated almost imperceptibly. “Not yet, Your Highness.”
Lucan acknowledged the answer with a nod, then signaled for the guards to open the large, wooden door leading to his court. It swung open with ease. When Lucan at last entered his throne room, his courtiers had already begun gathering. They moved differently, as if a new rhythm orchestrated their steps.
Fuck.
News of the prisoner’s death had already flown from their lips.
Conversations dissolved the moment his footsteps approached. Servants turned and disappeared the moment they saw his face, eyes wide like startled mice. Even the guards seemed to stand straighter, hands resting a little closer to the pommels of their ceremonial swords.
Fear had a pulse.
And Lucan felt it beating with such intensity, his stomach curled with both satisfaction and despair.
How had he become this?
How did he not care?
Lucan ignored demure looks from his courtiers as he crossed the throne room. Moonlight spilled through stained glass, bathing the white, marble floor in a silvery-blue tone that looked so eerily similar to the moon elf who now rotted somewhere in the castle sewers. His breath caught at the sight. The castle had always been so beautiful in the eventide hours.
Beautiful, and suffocating.
He reached the base of the dais, strode up the stairs two at a time, and positioned himself in his unwanted throne. The hard stone at his back pressed against the runes now turned into fresh scars over his right shoulder. Hissing, he pressed in harder.
He deserved all of this rot.
A grotesque beast wearing the elegant face of a prince.
Before long, Senna appeared at his side with a tall goblet of bloodwine and a large decanter. Thirst clawing at his throat, Lucan snatched the liquid and gulped it down, then motioned for another. Dutifully, Senna filled the goblet three more times until soon, Lucan’s vision clouded and his muscles relaxed.
Lucan watched the court like this for some time, unwilling to rise and address them as expected. It was only when the doors pushed open and Anileta rushed in that he roused from his drunken stupor.
“There she is!” he barked out, raising an accusatory finger to the countess. “I was beginning to think we might have to cancel your precious masquerade.”
Anileta dropped into a curtsey.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” she yelped out before rising.
The hurried click of her heels over the polished marble turned every head in the court. She rushed to Lucan’s side, nearly running up the dais steps and tripping over her skirts. Breathing unevenly, she dropped to her knees in front of Lucan’s throne.
“Please, Lucan, I know I was to be here waiting for you. I won’t let it happen again.”
Lucan sneered at Anileta. She was so godsdamned pathetic, begging like a pauper. He noted how her hair was imperfectly pinned as though assembled in haste by an amateur. One of her gloves was fastened wrong, twisted at the wrist over a golden bracelet. It was the kind of imperfection that would normally never survive her inspection.
“Oh, do get up, Anileta. My cock is dry if you wish to make your amends now.”
Her crimson eyes flashed down to his hips for a moment, then back up.
“My prince…”
