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With Kaithar around, they’ll know not to try any dirty tactics.
Nobody messes with the Commander of the Black Eagles.
We make our way across the floor. I move closer, swapping the pelt to my other arm, putting my hand on the small of her back.
She doesn’t resist.
For the first time in my life, I know the feeling of extreme possessiveness.
I make sure everyone sees us as I guide Finley to the banquet area. At the far end, one table is set up for myself and my chosen guests. Two chairs in the center stand out from the others. The high backs are carved with the motifs of Tyron. Round, plumptansemberries nestle in thorny vines that twist around wide-bladed broadswords. The blades taper down toward the floor, forming the back legs of the chairs.
On either side, scaled dragon claws rise above the swords, forming the backrest, holding the finials—a pair of smooth orbs. The black dragon is the symbol of Tyron—the most fearsome beast known to man. According to the myths, the black dragon nests in the highest peaks of the Khatur Mountains.
The myth is seeded in truth.
I should know.
I killed the damn beast, and it killed me.
I escort Finley toward the chairs. She looks up at me, frowning.
I bend down and whisper close to her ear, inhaling the sweet-scented fragrance of her hair. I’m still aroused. “For the Lord and Lady of the castle. I’m not big on pomp and ceremony, but we should have something to distinguish ourselves, don’t you think? And maybe when he sees this, your father might understand the situation a little better.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve invited him to dinner, on the condition that he behaves himself.”
On cue, Baron Solisar himself appears, escorted by one of my servants, Rugar. Well, Rugar’s more of a guard, considering he was once a broadsword-wielding infantryman. The vicious scar across his left eye and the claw on his left arm—amputated at the wrist—are telltale signs. Naturally, he refused my offer of a generously remunerated medical retirement, complaining that he didn’t want to grow bored and fat and lazy. “Allow me, my lord.” His voice is like sandpaper. He pulls out the chair that’s farthest from us and bids the baron be seated.
Baron Solisar is wearing loaned clothes—a plain shirt and trousers that were clearly designed for a larger, more muscular frame. His face is filled with thunder. There are dark circles under his eyes.
His right hand is tightly bandaged.
I never noticed before, but there’s a slight hunch to his posture.
As he catches sight of us, he stiffens. His expression fills with uncertainty.
That’s to be expected.
After all, he’s seeing me for the very first time.
In the bright lights of the great hall, standing before his daughter, he looks diminished.
“Father,” Finley gasps quietly.
How can she call that man father, after what he’s done to her?
After what he did to hermother?
I’m itching to kill him, but I made Finley a promise.
Solisar hesitates, glaring daggers at Rugar.
“This is where you’re to sit,” Rugar insists, moving in slightly, using his considerable frame to intimidate.
“Evening, Baron Solisar,” I drawl, meeting his furious eyes. “I’m pleased you were able to make it.”
“Y-you…” His eyes widen in fear. Of course, he recognizes my voice.
