“Beat whom—?” Before he can even finish the sentence, his words fade and understanding lights his dark blue eyes. “What is your plan?”
“You’re going to let me borrow that.” I motion toward the sword at his hip. “And I’m going to run him through.”
He twists slightly, putting the hilt of his sword farther from my reach. “And risk your brother’s wrath? King Boris hired the House Master himself.”
He did? But Boris delegates everything. He has an advisor in charge of selecting his attire and someone to seal his private documents. He has a man who helps him fucking dress. He makes it seem like a king’s job isn’t to rule but to delegate. So why would my brother hand-pick the head of the household when there is a man in charge of castle hiring? Not that it matters. Bilson is right. If Boris finds out I murdered the man, he will have my head on a silver platter.
But I cannot stand by and donothing.
A middle-aged man with inky black hair, stark against his pale gray face, stumbles from the caverns, escorted by a lone guard. His billowy white shirt hangs to his knees over a pair of dark trousers. “What is the meaning of this?” he huffs. “I’ve been up all night dealing with?—”
I step out from behind the boulder. The man’s dark gaze flies to mine, and he falls silent.
It takes every ounce of control I possess not to call fire to my palms and watch the skin melt from his bones as the bastard burns to ash.
With the guard still restraining his arms, he dips his head instead of offering a proper bow.
“I hear a guard was attacked,” I say. No sense mincing words.
Bilson’s boots crunch on the gravel as he shifts his weight. Probably should have told him that part. Oh well.
“That is correct, Your Highness,” the House Master says. “Darius Porter was bludgeoned by someone in the launderette. Sadly, he succumbed to his wounds, but I can assure you that we are searching tirelessly for the perpetrator.”
Part of me mourns the fact that I won’t get to kill the bastard myself, but that is neither here nor there. “I also heard that you ordered two maids to be whipped.”
His dark brows come together. “Because they stole from the king.”
“They didn’t steal anything. They borrowed books from a fucking library—and with my permission.” Let him choke on that little lie. My hands flex into fists at my sides. If it weren’t for the wards keeping me out, I would’ve already skewered the bastard.Fuck the consequences.
“Neither of them told me that, sire.”
“How many lashes did they receive?”
His throat bobs when he swallows. “Five a piece.”
I snap my fingers, and Bilson stalks forward, coming to a halt at my side. “This man is to be given ten lashes, and he is to be relieved of his position in the castle immediately.”
The House Master scoffs. “You jest.”
“Do I look like I’m fucking jesting?”
“You have no authority here. I was hired by the king himself.”
I saunter toward the gate, look the bastard straight in the eye, and say, “I don’t give a shit if you were hired by the gods themselves. I am a Vale prince. I can do whatever the fuck I want.” I nod, and the guards drag the man toward Bilson.
The House Master does not struggle when they force him to his knees. The sound of ripping fabric screams through the air. His eyes meet mine, his dark gaze rife with violent promises. I only wish he’d try something. Give me an excuse to stab Bilson’s sword into his narrowed eyes. Another guard appears, whip in hand, and hands the thing over to Bilson.
My guard shoots me a steely-eyed glare, his muscular forearms flexing as he adjusts his grip on the handle. The leather rope whizzes through the air, cracking off the man’s back. The House Master falls forward with a vicious curse, bracing his hands on the damp ground and taking every single lash.
I hope every time he sees the scars, he thinks of me.
And if he ever comes near my girl again, I will be the one to deliver the killing blow.
Forty-Three
ALLETTE
Memories dancelike shadows at the edge of my vision. Panic and fear. Murder. Pain.