Series: Lords of Rathe Series by Meagan Brandy
Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Legend.
The thought hits me harder than the dream.
My hand drifts higher—hesitant, careful, almost ashamed of the fear simmering beneath my skin—until my fingertips brush the center of my chest. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t even know what the hell I expect to feel. He keeps saying there’s something between us, some bond neither of us can outrun, and maybe I’m an idiot for checking, but—
There.
A pull.
Quiet at first.
Then steady.
Heat weaves through me, a thin gold thread winding tight beneath my bones, tugging low and certain, and it feels… Gods, it feels like relief. Like exhaling after holding my breath for years. Like something inside me whispering, there you are.
My lips twitch before I can stop them.
He’s alive.
I saved him.
Me.
I did that.
And the realization sends a strange rush through my chest, nervous and hot and a little terrifying because I don’t feel things like this. I don’t want to think about why I am now.
“Get a grip,” I mutter, dragging my hand away as if that can sever whatever just lit up inside me.
Still, the warmth lingers and the tether hums, and gods help me—the feeling settles something in me that has never settled before.
I throw the blanket off and swing my legs out of bed, ready to find him. To see that fire-bright stare for myself, but a slip of black catches my eye.
A folded card rests on the floor just inside my room, placed so perfectly it looks almost ceremonial. My name is slashed across the front in handwriting with sharp, arrogant strokes.
I kneel, pluck it up, and the moment I flip it open, warmth curls low in my stomach.
Little monster,
I won’t waste time pretending I’m patient. I cannot wait to set my eyes on you tonight.
Your power is waking like a creature starved, and I will be the one it bends for. Try not to break anything before I see you.
Wear something that will ruin me. I intend to make tonight one you will never forget.
— Your mate
A slow, traitorous smile pricks the corners of my mouth before I can kill it.
“Asshole,” I whisper, even though the word tastes nothing like irritation.
I stare at the note for longer than I should, happy to know that he’s okay. That he waits for me.
Gods, I sound gross but for the first time…I’m not so sure I care.
A knock shatters the quiet.
I straighten, and the door materializes. Emmie, the girl he sent to me with a million dresses in tow, is on the other side.
“Hello again.” She smiles. “Shall we?”
“Shall we…what?”
Her eyes glitter. “It’s time to get ready for the ball.”
…
I stand in front of the tall window overlooking Rathe University’s inner quad, arms crossed, trying to ignore the girl behind me tugging at my hair like it personally offended her.
“Almost finished, miss.” Her voice is soft. Pleasant. The kind of voice designed not to irritate.
I hate it.
“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, watching students weave below in their pressed uniforms, all moving with purpose I don’t share. “I’m not your miss.”
“Of course.” A pause. “What should I call you then?”
“I told you before. Haide works fine.”
“Haide it is.” She threads something through a section of my hair. Pins, maybe. Or tiny weapons. Hard to tell with these people.
I glance back at her. Young face. Maybe mid-twenties. Blond hair pulled into a severe knot that makes her features sharper than they probably are. Her hands move with practiced efficiency, each twist and curl deliberate. Her simple gray dress screams servant, and the sight of it grates.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say.
“Do what?”
“This.” I wave a hand vaguely at the room, at her, at the stupid concept of royalty needing someone to touch their hair. “Play ‘yes ma’am’ for a bunch of overgrown children with crowns.”
Her laugh catches me off guard. Quiet. Genuine. “I know I don’t have to.”
“Then why??”
“I’m paid. Fed. Protected.” Her tone stays even. Factual. “My family’s served the Deveraux line for generations; this is the position I wished and worked hard for. It’s an honor to be part of the royal staff, not a shackle.”
I snort. “That’s what they tell you.”
“That’s what I choose to believe.” She meets my eyes in the reflection of the dark glass. “Big difference.”
I study her. No fear. No hesitation. Just…calm. Like she’s explaining weather patterns.
“You’re Argent,” I say.
“I am.”
“And you serve the people who just murdered your queen and took your throne.”
Her hands pause for half a breath. “Magdalena wasn’t my queen. She was a tyrant who bled our people dry and called it loyalty after the death of our true King and Queen many moons ago.” She tugs gently at a curl. “The Deveraux brothers are brutal. Violent. Terrifying on their worst days.” A small smile. “But they don’t pretend to be anything else. That’s refreshing.”