Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137226 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137226 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
“Because of her,” I say. “Because I am not a puppet on a string. I am your son and I have my own life and dreams, dreams you have tried to shame me for ever since my mother died. We are your family, your children, your flesh and blood. Does none of that mean anything to you? Is there not a heart inside your chest, one that wants to be a father, not a ruler? Can you not see that your disdain for your own offspring is the very thing that will break this family apart instead of bringing us together?”
My father continues to stare at me, unblinking, so motionless that I wonder how I could have come from him when my heart is racing, my palms are sweating, and I feel the ground is about to swallow me whole. Everything inside me is messy and chaotic and real and he’s just a statue with ice in his veins.
“Seize her,” he says coldly, and before I can register what’s happening, two guards come from behind my uncle and grab Brynla. She cries out, Vidar yells, and there’s chaos.
Lemi barks and shifts out of the carriage in front of Brynla, about to attack, but she quickly tells him with her intense gaze and flick of her wrist to stay put, not wanting him to get hurt.
He listens, sitting on his haunches but growling wildly, and the distraction provides me with an opportunity.
I grab my father from behind, my dagger already out and pressed against his neck.
“Let Brynla go or I will end him,” I command.
“Andor!” my uncle yells as he stumbles toward me. “Unhand him!”
“Stay back,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
“You don’t have the guts,” my father sneers.
“I have more guts than you’ll ever have,” I tell him, pressing the dagger in deeper, enough that he gasps and I know I’m drawing blood.
“Andor, please,” Vidar says, approaching me slowly with a show of his hands, as if I’m a wild horse. Perhaps I usually am, but even though my blood is whooshing in my head, my heart a frantic drum, I’m in complete control and thinking clearly.
“I will let him go,” I say. “I won’t hurt him any further. All he has to do is let Brynla go and promise that she is safe in this house, promise that he will never come after her. That he accepts that she is with me, the woman that I love, and there is no threat or disappointed look or hateful comment that would ever make me change my mind. I am not marrying the princess. I am choosing Brynla as mine, just as I will choose every other path in my life. Not for you, not for the syndikat, but for me.” I swallow hard, meeting Brynla’s watery, fearful eyes. “For her.”
My father grunts, not saying anything.
I press the dagger in farther until he starts to squirm.
Everyone else is silent. Everyone is waiting for my father to yield.
“All right, all right,” he says. “Guards, let the woman go.”
The guards immediately release Brynla and step back. She brings her ash-glass sword out of her sheath, holding it at her side as a warning, just in case.
But I keep hold of my father. “Promise me that she is free to live in our house, that you will send no harm to her, whether from you or your brother, or so help me goddesses, I will kill the both of you in your sleep.”
“Fine, fine,” he says.
“Promise!”
“I promise.” He’s practically begging. I don’t think any of us have ever seen him like this.
So I let him go.
He stumbles away from me toward his brother, grabbing his bloody throat, which has only produced a trickle. “But you are no son of mine,” he says.
I shrug, sliding my knife back into its holder. “And I bet that won’t change a damn thing between us.”
We stare at each other for a moment, hatred and animosity flowing between us. Though there is something else now in the air, something to complicate things. I think I might see a flicker of respect. Best not to dwell on it.
Steiner clears his throat from behind me. I turn around to see him reaching for the carriage door. “I suppose this is a good time to tell you that there is a consolation prize, Father.”
He steps inside and brings out the giant deathdrage egg, barely able to lift it but handling it well all the same.
“What is that?” my father asks tiredly, his voice hoarse.
“A fertilized deathdrage egg,” Steiner says. “Just like you asked. Although technically, you did ask for sycledrage eggs, but we had to make do.”
“You brought a fertilized deathdrage egg?” my uncle spits out. He throws his arms out. “Where the fuck are we supposed to raise that giant thing once it’s hatched?”