Bring Me Their Hearts(62)
In the shadows behind the polymath’s table sits a young man in a deep hood. His eyes gleam hard, like obsidian freshly polished. Black leather armor, a cowl, ever-confident posture. Prince Lucien. Even pretending his hardest to be a commoner, he doesn’t blend in entirely, that noble upbringing still clinging to him. I can’t help but think of his hunts, his role in witch death. His heart is my goal, but I must never forget he’s taken lives with his hatred.
Does he keep count? Does his number haunt him as my own haunts me?
I get up and walk over, settling in a chair opposite him. The music is just enough to cover our conversation.
“And here I thought you and Malachite were born attached at the hip,” I lilt. Lucien looks up at me and snorts.
“I managed to cut the cord this once. He kept insisting he come. Something about how ‘watching the two of us is like watching the most entertaining play,’ or similar nonsense. I don’t doubt he’s followed me out here, lurking in the shadows as he likes to do.”
Damn! The possibility of that silver-haired, smarmy bastard watching means I can’t try anything on Lucien. Y’shennria wins this round, but the idea of holding all our cards for one day is ludicrous with how much we stand to lose. If a good opportunity presents itself tonight, I have to try, bodyguard or no bodyguard.
You can make it sound as noble as you like, the hunger sneers. But in the end, you’re just hurrying for that heart of yours—
“You don’t drink?” I cut off the hunger and motion to his glass of water. Lucien narrows his eyes.
“No. Not anymore.” He laces his fingers together on the table, eyeing the mask covering my face. “You look prettier than usual. New makeup?”
“I was so ready to declare you have a heart.” I click my tongue. “As it turns out, it’s just a lump of coal in there.”
At the next table over, a brawl is brewing, two men glaring holes into each other. Lucien leans back in his chair. “You take so many stabs at me, I figured you’d appreciate a stab back once in a while.”
“Oh, I do. But only aimed at a nonvital organ.”
“Implying your beauty is a vital organ of yours?” He scoffs. “I took you for many things—troublemaker, inscrutable. Not once did I consider vain.”
“You forgot selfish,” I add. “And demanding of your time.”
“This demand of my time is nothing compared to the daily demands you make of my patience.”
“One can only hope someday I’ll blossom from an awful harridan into an undemanding, demure, boring high lady.”
The two men begin to argue, drunk voices steadily rising. Lucien’s cowl moves, an eyebrow quirked. “Is high lady a metaphor of some kind?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. As if I possess the intelligence to construct metaphors.”
“I’ve seen you do it at least twice,” he points out lightly.
“By the New God, the secret’s out; I’m fully capable of thinking!” I lament. “There goes my courtesan career.”
“It was over the moment you blackmailed the Crown Prince of Cavanos,” Lucien murmurs as he leans in, eyes gleaming with something like amusement.
“Is the Crown Prince not enjoying the price of my blackmail in the slightest? And here I thought it’d be entertaining for one of us at the very least.”
The drunk men at the next table jump to their feet, throwing anything within reach at each other: mugs, bread crusts, their own shoes. Lucien suddenly whirls his cape in one fluid motion, the two of us covered from a wayward splash of beer. Inside the dimness of the cape, he pulls his cowl down, a smirk crooking his lips.
“You know, if you’re regretting it, you could always beg my forgiveness.”
I laugh too loud—but the fight outside our cloth haven drowns the sound. I slide up my mask and smile sweetly at him. “The only time you’ll ever see me beg, Your Highness, is when my body is cold and dead and on the pyre.”
There’s a moment, our eyes roving over each other’s faces, our grins mirror images of each other. That rainwater scent of his is faint but very much there, a welcome relief from the smells of the tavern. We’re so close I’ve no doubt our eyelashes will tangle any second, but Lucien’s expression suddenly hardens, and he puts careful distance between our faces. The locket under my shirt trembles violently. His heart is no doubt still, unmoved. I’m so rooted in the moment I barely register the sounds of the celeon barkeep kicking the drunken men outside. Finally Lucien snorts, pulling his cowl back up and lowering his cape. I quickly put the mask back on, watching as his eyes grow progressively duller.
“A pyre, hmm?” Lucien ponders. Before I can speak, he does. “I’ve only ever been to one funeral, and I’m not keen to go to any more.”
He means Varia. I lace my fingers between one another, determined not to tread this dangerous ground again. Once with the king was enough. Lucien swirls the water around in his glass, the lamplight reflecting as rainbow shards over his skin, over the bandage on the back of his hand.
“Much to my utter disgust, I find myself owing you yet another thank-you,” I brave the silence. “For sending Malachite to stalk me.”
“He is very good at that,” Lucien agrees softly. “Just as the Priseless twins are very good at hurting unsuspecting Brides and using their family’s influence to make them stay silent about it.” His dagger eyes glance up at me. “I warned you about the court.”