Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
The keeper’s hands go up in a sign of surrender, a tight smile pulling at his lips. “Then we will have no issues because my mortals will not be offering anything beyond their vein. Where is the king, by the way?” He peers around, searching. “I should very much like to meet him.”
“He doesn’t care to meet with commoners.” Jarek’s smile drips with challenge and stinks of arrogance. He’s trying to provoke a fight.
The keeper’s eyes flare.
“If I may …” Gesine slips in between the two males, forcing both to step back. It’s a distraction from the growing tension, and, if I’m beginning to understand Gesine at all, her way of defusing an explosive situation. Maybe she has armed herself with an invisible shield.
Or maybe either of them could kill her in an instant.
Without any explanation, she reaches out for the closest tributary, a blond who can’t be much over eighteen.
The young woman presents her hand tentatively, and Gesine collects it, bowing her head a moment. “She is ready.”
Jarek juts his chin at Horik. “Feed now. You’re on watch next.” He beckons others over with a snap of his fingers.
The woman’s eyes grow wide as she takes in the giant, and I hold my breath, half expecting the enormous warrior to collect her by the scruff and drag her away.
But Horik only takes a step back to give her space.
Gesine shifts to the next tributary, following the same process.
The keeper scowls. “Who are you and what are you doing?”
It dawns on me that the people of Freywich may not know about the poison working its way through Islor.
Gesine’s smile is soft as she guides the tributary to another waiting warrior. “I am the king’s caster, and I’m granting them the fates’ blessings so they may give the warriors strength.”
Damn, she lies so smoothly. I would be wise to remember that.
The keeper grunts as if weighing that answer, but he’s distracted as Horik and the other warrior lead the tributaries into the stables. “Where are they going? I did not give permission to take them anywhere. No, they will feed right here where I can see them.”
“The Legion will feed where they want, when they want”—Jarek steps in closer, his looming size making the other male look fragile and small, though he is neither—“and how they want.”
Three tense seconds pass and then the keeper moves several steps back, shrinking from Jarek. He notices his last tributary stalled, and wrenching her arm, he shoves her forward. “Go.” He glowers as she leaves with Zorya.
He’s not a kind keeper. He doesn’t care about their well-being, or the warriors taking things too far. He just doesn’t like sharing his toys, and he’ll probably unleash his irritation on them later.
My anger flares, the need to lash out overpowering my senses. This prick needs a good slap.
I can’t help myself. Adrenaline floods my veins, the gold around my finger heating. I focus on the trough and watch with satisfaction as the water comes alive at my will, twirling into the air, taking the shape of a woman’s hand—delicate, long fingers—to smack the keeper from behind.
Only the blow is harder than I intended. My stomach drops as the keeper sails across the space and lands in a mound of dirt.
Time stands still as everyone watches, some with gaping mouths, others with smirks.
He pulls himself up, spitting out bits of hay while surveying his sodden and filthy clothes.
Not dirt, I realize. The day’s collection from the horse stalls.
A bubble of laughter bursts from my mouth before I can stop it, drawing all eyes to my window. I fight the urge to duck behind the curtains when the keeper finds me there, a mixture of shock and rage filling his expression.
More stuffy immortals herd their tributaries through the stable gate, some waving at them like cattle.
“This must be the Ybarisan princess we’ve heard about,” the horseshit-covered keeper pushes through gritted teeth. “To what do I owe this treatment?” He doesn’t cap it with any address—even for show, as Danthrin did—and I immediately know what he thinks of himself and of me.
I glower at him, forcing ice into my tone. “They are human beings, not your possessions.”
“If you are to be the queen of Islor, I suggest you familiarize yourself with Islor’s customs.” His chuckle is condescending as he looks to the other keepers gathered.
“And I suggest you start treating those who keep you alive better before they rise against you.” You have no idea what’s coming, you arrogant fuck. A part of me hopes one of these young women is handed a vial and decides she’s had enough.
He cocks his head. “What you’re suggesting would be tantamount to treason against the crown.”
“And what is being suggested?” comes a deep voice.
My heart was already pounding, but now it skips entire beats as Zander strolls past the tributaries who drop with deep curtsies, their keepers following quickly. His mane of golden-brown hair looks freshly washed. He’s replaced his ragged outfit with fitted and finely made black leathers similar to the Legion’s clothing, with as many weapons strapped to his solid frame. He appears just as deadly.