Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 152616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 763(@200wpm)___ 610(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 763(@200wpm)___ 610(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
By this time of the evening, the Baron would already be in either the solarium or the Great Chamber, surrounded by his paramours and cronies, but the Prince had shown no indication of preparing to leave the hall. Therefore, the Baron remained.
And so did I.
“Tell me something, Your Grace,” Claude began, and I briefly closed my eyes, having no idea what level of absurdity was going to come out of his mouth.
And there had been a lot of ridiculousness already, everything from Claude asking whether or not Prince Thorne believed the cold grain cereal often eaten upon waking could be considered a soup, which the Prince had answered only with a stare that was part confusion, part disbelief, to him regaling the Prince with tales of his time spent at the University of Urbane, just outside of Augustine.
Or attempting to.
Prince Thorne didn’t appear regaled by any of what the Baron was saying.
However, he did appear to be quite interested in where Claude’s free hand was. He’d tracked how the Baron’s fingers had first toyed with the string lacing between my breasts, and his stare had followed Claude’s eventual path down my stomach, to my hip. He was aware of the exact moment Claude’s wandering palm made it to my thigh, exposed by the high cut of the skirt. Tiny bursts of white had appeared in the Prince’s eyes.
Claude seemed not to realize what the Prince was so attentive to, but I was aware— too aware. The Baron’s touch was cool, but the burn of the Prince’s perusal scalded my flesh, creating warring sensations that made it impossible to ignore.
Honestly, I could’ve left at any point. I wasn’t even trying to read Prince Thorne. Claude might have been disappointed, but he wouldn’t have tried to stop me. I feared that if I left Claude alone with the Prince, he would get himself in trouble or worse.
Killed.
But was that the only reason?
My gaze briefly met the Prince’s, and my breath snagged.
“I’ve heard something utterly fascinating about Hyhborn that I’ve always been curious about but never got the chance to ask,” Claude went on, his fingers sweeping back and forth along the curve of my upper thigh. “I once heard that a Hyhborn could . . . regenerate severed limbs.”
I nearly choked on the champagne I’d been nursing.
“Is that true?” Claude asked.
Across from us, the Hyhborn prince sat as he had in my bed-chamber earlier. A short glass of whiskey in hand, his posture almost relaxed, almost lazy; but the coiled tension, the barely restrained power, was there.
“Depends,” Prince Thorne answered, tracing the rim of his glass, the amber-hued liquor nearly the same color as the hair resting against his jaw.
“On?” the Baron prodded.
Prince Thorne’s jaw tightened. “On exactly how . . . strong one may be. Healing such an injury would take an extraordinary amount of energy, even for a Deminyen.” His gaze tracked Claude’s fingers as they slid beneath the panel of my gown, and I bit down on the inside of my lip. “Energy is not infinite, no matter the being.”
“Interesting.” Claude swallowed another mouthful.
“Is it?” Prince Thorne inquired. “Should I be concerned about such interest?”
I pressed the side of the flute against my chest, skin prickling at how deceptively soft his tone was.
“Well, I’m half tempted to chop off an arm just to watch it grow back,” Claude said with a loud laugh. “Must be a bizarre thing to witness.”
My eyes went wide. I told myself he didn’t just say that to a Hyhborn— to the Prince of Vytrus.
The Prince’s finger stilled on the rim of his glass. Flames rippled suddenly above the candle.
“He’s only joking, Your Grace.” I smiled, stomach twisting. “There is no need for worry. He just has quite the unique sense of humor.”
“I’m not worried,” Prince Thorne replied, returning to tracing the rim of his glass. “After all, he hasn’t picked up a sword since when? He came into his title?”
I doubted Claude had handled a sword before then.
“And one would have to wield a sword made of lunea if they thought to pierce the skin and bone.” He paused, taking a small drink of his whiskey. “They are quite . . . heavy.”
I took a rather large gulp of my champagne then, knowing damn well Claude couldn’t lift a lunea sword. Prince Thorne knew that.
So did Claude. “Touché.” He laughed, reaching for the bottle of brandy. His pour was surprisingly steady. “Though, there are lunea daggers that I imagine are less unwieldy.”
Dear gods. . . .
“I would like to know something,” Prince Thorne stated. “What will you do if the Iron Knights breach Archwood?”
“That shouldn’t happen with you and your regiment guarding the city.” Claude’s fingers slid under the panel of my gown once more. “But if there were to be a . . .” Claude drank, and I tensed. “If there were to be a failure? I have my guards.”