 
## **CONTENTS**

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One - What's Past is Prologue

Chapter Two - The Stage

Chapter Three - The Fête

Chapter Four - An Interlude

Chapter Five - The Conspirators

Chapter Six - The Plot

Chapter Seven - The Knife in the Dark

Chapter Eight - A Promise

Chapter Nine - Sneak Peak - Book 2: All the King's Men

About the Author

Other Books by Lia Cooper

THE OMEGA PRINCE

The Kingdom of Pacchia Book 1

Lia Cooper
**DISCLAIMER** This work contains language and sexual content that may not be suitable for readers under 18. This work contains EXPLICIT SEXUAL MALE/MALE CONTENT. Not your cup of tea? Don't read it. Otherwise, please enjoy.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE** This story takes place in an alternative reality where sex and gender are categorized according to presentation: alphas impregnate, omegas bear children, and betas can either impregnate or bear like human normal. Men and women as we know them can present as either alphas or omegas. This concept is often called "omegaverse."

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE OMEGA PRINCE. Copyright © 2014 by K C Rumsey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission.

Cooper, Lia (2014-08-19). The Omega Prince, The Kingdom of Pacchia Book 1. The Spec Press. EBook Edition.

All rights reserved.

#

Sometimes you've got to write something fun.

## **CHAPTER ONE**

### **_What's Past is Prologue_**

###

He was Lord Riven now, the only son of the late Lord Riven.

A middle child, considered spoilt and indolent in his youth through very little fault of his own. It was the prerogative of the peerage to keep their children in the comfortable style in which they themselves were raised. And so the youngest Lord Riven was instructed by tutors in the manor castle, taught to ride and mock fight, and left to enjoy the pleasanter pastimes in life such as hunting every day except Sundurn, which was reserved for feasting.

The son, known to his sisters and closest companions as Dierik, was little seen at the High Court of the King of Lyle, and there was much talk bandied amongst the other houses when his fourteenth birthday came and went without his joining the King's Guard as was the wont of most noble sons looking to distinguish themselves.

No acts of valor, scholarship, or might were thus put forward to advance the young Dierik, and his name was predominantly forgotten until his twentieth year when news reached the High Court that Lord Riven and his household, excepting the son and the youngest daughter, had been murdered in their beds and the manor castle burned to its foundations.

After that, the name Riven was explicably attached to gratuitous rumors of _patricide_ and _plot_ though no evidence ever surfaced that the son was in fact the root cause of his family's fall.

The damage was already done.

The more greedy and tenacious corners of the court, smelling blood, were quick to circle the floundering house. Within a month, expeditionary forces began to make their presence felt all along House Riven's borders, and shortly that after the son gathered his knights and loyal vassals and marched to his defenses.

That was eight years ago.

## **CHAPTER TWO**

### **_The Stage_**

###

In the court of the High King of Lyle, the king's only child came to maturity in the sixteenth year of his father's reign. The boy, the crown prince Aubrey Allora of Wescott, presented as an omega that year to very little surprise, for he was fair and fine boned like his bearer, much vaunted for his intelligence and level headed demeanor even while the rowdier members of his cohort tore through the palace sparring grounds seeking attention in sweat and bloody—if meaningless—endeavors.

There was much rejoicing at the news of his majesty's maturation. For only the worst warhawks amongst the courtiers would consider an educated and silver-tongued monarch an ill omen for future affairs of state.

Prince Aubrey was pleasant and neutrally spoken in his words before his father's court. He was a man who made a point, even in his youth, to remain informed of important matters throughout the Kingdom, even as his own tastes ran towards more sequestered pursuits like reading and mapmaking.

His majesty passed many an afternoon in his first fifteen years, traipsing through the grounds of the high court, a weather-beaten journal in hand, muddied and scraped from hours spent discovering new paths through the deeper forest.

To the consternation of his manservant and vaunted compatriot—the Honorable Winston Dupuis, third son of Baron Dupuis—these adventures were only little curtailed after his presentation. The Hon. Winston was not a very big fan of tromping through brambles and sticker bushes unless it was in pursuit of a brace of quail or a fox's red brush.

"I'm not sure this is the best use of your Majesty's time," Winston said one morning at the very end of Marchadun, peeling the better part of a raspberry bush from his hose, careful of the sticky sharp spines and frowning at the stains the overripe fruit left on the fabric. It was one thing, to his mind, to dirty one's person in a noble endeavor. Unfortunately, there was nothing very noble about falling prey to a berry bush.

The Crown Prince merely settled for rolling his eyes as he helped his friend disentangle himself from the foliage.

"Don't be such a grey cloud just because you can't pay better attention to where you're going."

"I merely wished to point out that there are more pressing matters we could be attending to."

"What? Like organizing a menu for the feast? As if Cook would let you within twelve paces of her ledger and assuming I had any interest in putting forth a say in the matter, which I do not."

Winston grumbled under his breath.

"Indeed that is not what I meant. If there were any planning in which we might participate, it seems natural, to my way of thinking, that it would be in designing the steeplechase." For Winston was a great lover of horses and could not easily forsake an opportunity to show off both his horsemanship and the superior breeding of his mare Gess.

He was not half wrong that the steeplechase fell fair comfortably within the realm of both their expertise—both having a meticulous knowledge of the grounds composing the High Court. And perhaps if it were for any other event, his highness might have taken delight in pooling their natural inclinations together to create such an astounding test of courage, stamina, and skill as was not to be found at any other race. But as it stood, Prince Aubrey felt all over cold at the merest mention of the Tri-fête and would prefer to avoid any involvement in its planning to Winston's obvious and now vocal dismay.

Despite being an omega, Prince Aubrey had little interest or use for the sort of alphas that the fête attracted. Or really, any alpha of any sort. He knew intellectually that one day he would be expected—nay, required—to take a husband. But his venerable father was still in good health and would hopefully continue to be so, thereby forestalling his majesty's domestic obligations.

"You're being entirely too snobbish about the whole affair," Winston had said to him on no less than three occasions thus far. "We cannot all possess your cool head for territories and treaties. Some people enjoy a good scrap."

The Hon. Winston was a beta and therefore could not be expected to really appreciate the expectations Aubrey felt regarding his eventual marriage—as though a royal engagement was not foreboding enough on its own merits without the addition of _sex_ that colored the affairs of alphas and omegas. His friend would never have to suffer through the indignity of an unattached heat, and would not be expected to marry one of the idle, testosterone driven alphas who flocked to the fête. And as his family's third son, he had merely to fall in love with any respectable beta—man or woman—and make an honest spouse of them to appease the preoccupation of his grandchild-obsessed mother.

The prince worried that if he showed any opinions about the fête one way or another he would find himself accidentally encouraging both the participants and the gossip that inevitably hovered around his eventual marriage. Better to avoid all preparations and much of the event itself as far as propriety allowed.

He would be required to view the primary events: the feast, the opening ceremony and the dance on the first day, but otherwise, he had planned to make himself as busy as possible for the rest of the festivities.

Winston would just have to find a way to temper his disappointment at Aubrey's apathy.

"There's nothing wrong with enjoying a good spat," Winston grumbled. His boots trampled an unfortunate number of plants as he followed Aubrey through the overgrown brush. They could hear a small brook nearby and the prince was intent on seeing it before they turned back for luncheon.

"The fête is hardly what I would characterize as a _spat_."

"Well, no, I suppose it's a good deal more than that. But suppose we were to be attacked? You'd appreciate the martial prowess of our peers then, I expect."

"In such a hypothetical situation, we would only be under attack if I had failed utterly in my own duties as king," Aubrey said archly.

The trees before them parted and they stepped out onto a very narrow bit of shore lining a trickle of fresh water. Aubrey's soft leather boots sank into the dark mud. His manservant reached out a steadying hand and wrinkled his brow.

"I may not be the diplomat that you are—"

Aubrey smirked back at Winston over his shoulder.

"—Oh, hush," Winston said, tugging on his Prince's tunic. "But I suspect that not even you can predict the movement of every nation along our borders. It is true, it is not luck that has kept your father's Council peaceful all of these years. I just mean that we cannot always foresee the wickedest hearts of men."

"Have you heard something I should know about, Dupes?"

Winston shook his head and withdrew his hands now that Aubrey had his feet braced against the slick ground.

"No, nothing like that. I would tell you if I had heard anything of _that_ sort, of course. I'm speaking in theoreticals. I thought you might appreciate that."

Aubrey knelt and rinsed his hands in the stream, splashing water on his lightly sunburnt cheeks and smiled.

"I suppose, if we're speaking theoretically, you have a point," the prince conceded and stood.

Winston perked up. "Oh, aye, of course I am. Now, if it's all the same to you, your majesty, I heard Cook say something about shepherd's pie earlier. It would be a shame to miss that."

Prince Aubrey rolled his eyes but gestured for his friend to lead the way back the direction they had come. Unsurprisingly, they left the woods at a much more respectable clip than they had entered them. As they walked, he made a mental note of the angle of the sun relative to their position and his father's Keep. He could make a note of the small brook in his journal over lunch. Winston was never good for conversation when pie was on offer.

The next month passed in a similar manner for Prince Aubrey as the days grew longer and early spring stretched towards summer and the temperature warmed. By contrast, the Keep's staff flew through the halls making preparations for the Tri-fête, their urgency growing as the day of the opening ceremony drew closer.

In the end, the Hon. Winston was even given leave to work with the groundskeeper to consult on the steeplechase as was his humble desire, and the prince was left to his solitary devices.

Very soon the combatants—all alphas from the peerage seeking to distinguish themselves in one manner or the other in this time of peace—began arriving at King Lyle's court. They were accompanied by members of their respective houses, there to cheer or jeer per their prerogative, as well as their squires and servants. All of these newcomers had to be set up in quarters and soon the Keep was nigh overflowing with bodies.

Faced with two dozen alphas suddenly underfoot and overeager for his attention, Prince Aubrey took to locking himself in his bearer's private library. The first day he had attempted to avoid the attention by escaping into the woods but one uncomfortable run-in with Lord's Kerrigan's eldest son had dissuaded Aubrey from attempting such an escape again. Better to keep a solid locked door between himself and any amorously intentioned suitors.

The Prince Consort found his child thus sequestered in a deep reading chair, pale and dour faced, his over-tunic thrown haphazardly across a side table and the laces of his shirt askew as he stared unseeing at the heavy pages in front of him. Sir James, formerly the Duke Wescott before his marriage to the King, watched his son for several minutes and in that time the latter gave no indication that he was paying the slightest attention either to the room or his reading.

Aubrey started when the Prince Consort touched the fine, blond fuzz along the nape of his neck.

"Did you need to cut it to such an extreme?"

"Forgive me if it's not fashionable enough."

"That's not what I meant," his bearer murmured. "I merely thought it looked pleasing on you with a little more length."

"You are not the only one," Aubrey said, his tone low and clipped. It made the Prince Consort frown.

"If there is something—or someone—giving you—"

"It's too hot to wear long, is all," Aubrey interrupted. "There has been no trouble." Indeed only the implication of impropriety, a word whispered in his ear in some darkened stairwell and a few too many covetous looks. But for all that, it was not entirely a lie. The nearer they came to the fête, the hotter the days grew until Aubrey had to worry about sweating straight through his clothes in a most unbecoming manner.

"As long as you're comfortable, I suppose. Will you have dinner with me? I feel as though I never see you these days."

The prince hesitated, marking his place in his book with a slender finger.

"Your father has a meeting about a grain tax. I thought to sup in my private tea room," Sir James continued.

Aubrey squeezed his bearer's fingers once, fleetingly, and nodded. "Of course, papa. I will see you later." Which seemed enough to satisfy the Prince Consort, who pressed a kiss into his hair not long after and left him alone with the books.

By the end of the week, new meat arrived to stir up the court gossips in the form of the Lord Riven and his sister Elsa—freshly turned sixteen and styled "Sir" in the manner of alphas who competed in the Tri-fête or served in the King's Guard but were not the inheritor of their house.

This was Sir Elsa's first introduction to the High Court. She had been a child when their family died and her brother had kept her installed in the family castle since. Only the most trusted allies had been allowed to cross the Riven borders without challenge in the intervening years. The Lord Riven was likewise shy of the public eye. Indeed, it was unlikely to have seen him in the past decade unless one was unlucky fool enough to come across the end of his sword in a battlefield skirmish.

The Lord and Sir Riven's sudden appearance at the fête was of great interest to the peerage. _And with a small retinue following them!_ the courtiers exclaimed—small being the key word as they were accompanied by only two body servants and Sir Elsa's squire.

The Royal House of Lyle had, for almost two hundred years, controlled the southern tip of Pacchia with all of its high grassy plateaus, bitterly cold and covered in snow in the winter, and rocky coastline—shaped like a prehistoric shark had taken a bite out of the land, leaving behind a myriad of little shoals and harbors perfect for seaports, and easily defended. By contrast, the House Riven had long since made its seat on the northernmost tip of the River Eslan's delta where it spilled into the North Sea. The climate there altogether warmer, sparse of tree, and marked by a series of high altitude grass plains that tapered off only near the sea itself, very much like a series of steps leading down from the High Court to Castle Riven's front door.

As one might imagine, it was not a particularly easy trek from House Riven to the House Lyle to make on foot, and while travel may have been possible down the River Eslan, the southern banks of that region were taxed by House Bourn, who had spent the last ten or twenty years begrudging Riven's control of the delta. Even before the decline of their house's prominent members, House Riven was only rarely seen at court.

Now, Prince Aubrey observed their arrival from a narrow window overlooking the Keep's north approach. The sight of the riders—all five of them, the servants on well groomed rounceys and carrying pennants with the house crest, and the Lord and Sir Riven astride their sleek coursers, bedecked in dark brown and night sky blue—kindled a flicker of curiosity in the prince, the first he'd felt since the peerage began pouring into his home for the fête.

The Hon. Winston clattered through the library door, red-faced and huffing a little out of breath from the stairs.

"You did not mention that the House Riven was competing," the prince said, voice carefully chiding. It wouldn't do to let Winston think he was invested in the news.

"So you've heard?" He glanced out the window over Aubrey's shoulder and grinned. "No, you've seen it for yourself then. There was no word! None. They just appeared, the Lockslaggen runner only just beat them to the gate."

"Unexpected indeed."

The Hon. Winston leaned one arm against the side of the window and braced his forehead against his fist as he watched the riders dismount and make their way inside. The prince too watched the short procession, but askance, his finger marking his place in the book in his hands.

"My goodness, they make a fearsome pair, don't they?" Changing tacks, Winston said, "The King requests your presence at the main supper table tonight. Something about appearances? And showing due respect to the guests. I promised to pass along the message."

Prince Aubrey sighed. "Yes, of course. I do not need to be lectured on my role in all of this."

"At least you don't have to curtsey and hand out kisses to the winner. Really, it could be worse. All you have to do is show up, eat a little, drink a little—or a lot, if you want my advice—and smile once in a while. You'll have me there; what more could you want?" Winston grinned, familiar and cheeky and made motions to usher the prince out of the library.

It was in moments like these the prince felt especially fortunate to have such a friend and companion in an intimate position as the Hon. Winston. It was not every lord who could boast retaining such a respectable and dependable fellow as their manservant, and Prince Aubrey—for all that their interests may differ—could scarce imagine replacing him.

He supposed that at some future point, Winston would himself find a beta to settle down with and at that time seek release from his current duties. He might even enjoy some small estate bequeathed to him by the prince himself as a wedding gift.

For now, he allowed the other man to herd him away from his reading and into a bath before the opening feast.

The royal family was seated at one end of the high table that evening, the King at the head, his husband on his right and Prince Aubrey one chair further down. The contestants and heads of the noble houses filled the rest of the chairs at the long table in no particular order. The seat directly across from the prince remained empty until the cupbearers appeared with a second round of wine.

The Lord Riven materialized silently behind the servants, his face shadowed and expressionless. At a glance he had exchanged his travel clothes for a neat, if simply cut, pair of hose and doublet in a shade of blue that might almost be called black. His clothes were well fitted to his body, the sleeves simple rather than slashed as had become recently fashionable among the other alphas, and the hem reaching just past his knees. He wore leather boots, polished yes, but worn around the soles and ankles—not stiff like the boots of the peerage, a sort that had never seen anything beyond polished marble halls of the High Court or the swept ground of the fencing pitch. A glimmer of maille caught the light at Riven's hem as he strode to the long table: the man was not merely dressed for sup, he was ready for war, even here.

The Prince Aubrey watched beneath lowered eyes as Riven was directed to the open chair across from him. Such an auspicious seat, who would have arranged for—Aubrey shot a quick glance at his bearer who was distracted, smiling and murmuring into the King's ear. So close the prince could see where their fingers brushed just below the line of the table, sweetly and surreptitious.

The Lord Riven did not look his way when he was seated. Rather, his attention seemed to be cast anywhere else around the room, first to the far end of the table, then to the opposite door from whence he had entered.

The prince smoothed the cuff on his doublet until it lay flat against the back of his hand and reminded himself that it was impolite to stare and would only attract unwanted attention from curious gossips eager to discover the Crown Prince displaying any sort of overt attention to anything. He had been very young when he learned the lesson of appearing apathetic. It did no good to let the courtiers know whether he preferred one thing or the other, for no sooner had knowledge of his tastes traveled around, then they would have all adopted those tastes for themselves—whether it was a mode of dress or a particular dessert or his preference for one sort of company over another. He found it altogether less tiresome to simply affect a neutral position on everything and leave the looky-loos with nothing to fashion upon themselves in a parody of his own good opinion.

A warm body slid into the seat next to Aubrey, settling just an inch closer than manners preferred. He glanced up into Sir Robert of Bourn's handsome face, the man's eyes already on him.

"Your Highness," Sir Robert said, nodding his head and smiling softly with his plush mouth. Aubrey knew from Winston that the other man was at the fête as a competitor along with his two cousins. Sir Robert may have been his father's only son, but he was not his house's only alpha. "How are you doing this evening?"

Prince Aubrey found himself smiling back without leave, disarmed by Sir Robert's genteel countenance. His eyes were warm and intelligent, the lines of his body relaxed and easy. He had none of the rigid posturing Aubrey had come to expect from the other alphas pouring through the Keep's doors of late.

"Sir Robert," he murmured. "I'm quite well, thank you for asking. And yourself? Are you excited for the festivities to begin?"

Sir Robert cocked his head and gave the Prince a considering look. He had to work very hard not to flush under all of the scrutiny. The alpha was an undeniably attractive man, his face pleasing to look at and his body well formed, though lacking some of the overt bulk other alphas preferred.

"Do you consider it a festival, my lord?"

"Well, that is—" Aubrey fumbled for a polite way to phrase his thoughts on the fête. "It is a game of sorts."

"A fair way of describing it for some."

"What would you call it?"

"A game, as you say." Sir Robert smiled, flashing just the hint of straight white teeth, though nothing that could be considered threatening or scandalous. "I am not so desperate to take away from it what others seek."

"Such as?"

"A pound of flesh, I suppose." Sir Robert gave the prince a piercing look that made him tingle from his head to his groin. "There has been some speculation circling, I'm sure you're aware, that your grace will be watching the _festivities_ with a particular eye. If you gather my meaning."

Prince Aubrey looked away, the desire from a minute ago curdling in his veins. "I assure you, sir, _that_ is not a prize on offer at these games."

"No assurances necessary, I would never presume to think you would be interested in giving away such a precious commodity for a trifle such as the fête. I was merely commenting on the expectations of others."

"You would dismiss the importance of the fête like that? Even though you yourself are a competitor?"

Sir Robert laughed and it was a pleasant enough sound, easy and well-worn, like he was the sort of man who laughed often. Or at the very least, gave the impression that he did.

"Forgive me if I keep my reasons close to my chest but rest assured, they are entirely selfish."

If Prince Aubrey were pressed, he might describe Sir Robert's eyes as twinkling in the low lights of the feasting hall. It was perhaps lucky that no one was asking and their conversation was interrupted by the King standing with a clinking of crystal and silver as he motioned for silence. The prince paid little attention to the niceties extolled by his venerable father, the recitation of the fête's purpose, and his express desire for an entertaining month. Instead, the prince's thoughts kept wandering back to the man sitting next to him, warm and solid at his side and pleasant smelling, until Prince Aubrey's attention was caught by the scowling face seated across the table.

He met Lord Riven's dark expression with some degree of confusion—what on earth had so soured the man's evening? He looked positively fearsome now.

A quick glance down the table found Lord Riven's sister talking to the Hon. Winston. But that was not where the Lord's eyes fell. When Aubrey sat back, their eyes met and he felt it like an electrical current through his entire body, far surpassing any similar response evoked by Sir Robert just a minute before. He resisted the urge to squirm or blink first—neither reaction the appropriate response for the Crown Prince of the High Court. But he was relieved when his father concluded his speech a second later, providing Aubrey with a reason to look away that was in a manner other than capitulation as he stood with the rest of the assembled peerage to clap for the King's closing remarks.

The fête would begin on the morrow with a series of aim drills, but for now, the alphas in attendance were to eat up and gather their strength, boast and make merry.

Sir Robert resumed his attentions to the prince, asking about his studies and how his filly was coming up—to which Aubrey had very little to say. He had left the chestnut in his manservant's far more capable hands after a very close call some months prior. The Hon. Winston had not let the prince near her since, and Aubrey had a suspicion that it was both out of jealousy for the filly's saddle and a kind of abject terror at allowing the Crown Prince to almost meet an unfortunate end while under his supervision. Winston had assured Aubrey on no less than three separate occasions that he would not let the two of them back in the same round pen together until he was absolutely certain of the filly's temperament. Aubrey had not seen fit to argue. It was not as though his father didn't keep an entire stable of well-trained mounts at his disposal. And Aubrey was not the same sort of horseman as his friend, preferring his own two legs to that of a horse's.

And all the while, as he was making small talk with Sir Robert, the prince was distinctly aware of every glance and look cast from under dark brows, as the Lord Riven sat silently across the table, drinking only sparingly and paying even less attention to the food.

Sir Robert's attention was otherwise engaged following supper and the prince took his chance to slip away from the thicker crowd of courtiers as members of the court broke up into groups to play cards or sip headier wines as the candles in the hall began to burn low.

That is not to say he went to hide behind the curtains, but it may have been true to say that the prince took his chance then to seek out the darkest corner in the hall, away from the rest. But he was hardly alone. He bumped into something solid, hands brushing over stiff linen and he turned to find the Lord Riven looming over him.

He was everything you might want from an alpha. Just over six feet tall, broad of shoulder and narrow hipped, the muscles in his arms evident through the tight fit of his doublet. His face was tan, hair dark, and cheeks shaded with brushed stubble. His face fell too much in shadow to make out the color of his eyes but Aubrey remembered how blue they had been at supper.

"Your Grace," Lord Riven said, bowing stiffly from the waist.

"My lord."

Lord Riven's face tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Where is your companion?" he asked. "Sir Robert. The two of you seemed quite attached at dinner."

"I believe he is discussing the steeplechase with some of the other contestants. And we are not—" he said in a rush, "attached."

If anything, this statement seemed to pull the Lord Riven's brow down farther still.

Prince Aubrey swallowed. "Your sister is competing this year, isn't she?"

"You should be more careful of how you show your attentions."

"I beg your pardon." Aubrey frowned. "I do not follow your meaning. My behavior has been nothing but proper. Do you seek my displeasure by making insinuations with no basis in reality? Because I assure you, you're doing a splendid job of it thus far."

Riven frowned, the muscles in his jaw flexing. "Forgive me, I meant no offense. Merely a word of caution."

"I'll accept that in the spirit with which you profess to offer it but with the caveat that it is neither necessary nor warranted."

"As you say, your grace."

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence as across the hall servants finished clearing away the long table and musicians arrived to carry the revelry into the next hour. Members of the court began stepping forward to dance though there was a marked absence of several alphas. No doubt off to rest. The trials would begin very early tomorrow for several of them.

Aubrey weighed his duties against his desires and found himself wearied by the night.

"Best wishes to your sister in the tournament tomorrow. I bid you goodnight, Lord Riven." He excused himself without a backward glance.

## **CHAPTER THREE**

### **_The Fête_**

###

While he was not expected to watch the entire fête, he could not avoid it altogether either. Appearances had to be made, rankings announced, lip service paid to the alphas from houses most closely aligned to Lyle and Wescott. In short, Aubrey had a busy month ahead of himself.

Already Prince Aubrey wished that the fête had passed. He felt sure that the next few weeks would be full of one sort of attention, not wholly unpleasant, or another, much more uncomfortable and judgmental. The Lord Riven's stern words rang in his ear, making him feel hot and childish under his high collar. How many other seated at the dinner table had entertained similar thoughts about himself and Sir Robert? And just from an innocent conversation—they hadn't even spoken of anything consequential.

It was the unfortunate result of having presented as an omega during the intervening years from the last fête and the present tournament. While he may not be expected to marry this year or even the next, everyone would still be looking for him to make such a decision, and what better opportunity—at least to their way of thinking—than during the Tri-fête, when all of the strongest alphas from noble families were gathered in one place.

Not for the first time, he was reminded how, to many members of the court, this must appear very much like a marriage mart for an omega such as himself. It redoubled his resolution to find ways of avoiding as many of the bouts as was feasible without appearing overtly rude. Better to come across as cold than find himself the unwilling fuel for gossip or worse—at the center of some scandalous impropriety.

The next day rose sunny and hot, clear skies as far as the eye could to see and arid, without a hint of breeze. Competitors tents had been set up around the green lawn where the archery tests would be held, each of them draped in the colors of the alpha and his or her house. All of the pennants hung limp this morning.

Prince Aubrey took breakfast with the Prince Consort and the Hon. Winston in the prince's sitting room that morning, lingering over tea, soft boiled eggs and lox, a veritable mountain of white toast and early strawberries from the back garden.

The Prince Consort finished eating and bade his son not linger too long before disappearing. The Hon. Winston chewed at a piece of lox, sitting back in his chair while his left leg vibrated anxiously. He was visibly eager to get going while Prince Aubrey rearranged the strawberries on his plate and sipped his tea.

"Well," Winston said around his mouthful.

Aubrey sighed and stood from the table. "Yes, all right, before you vibrate all of the dishes into pieces."

Winston smiled and led him through a back corridor to a path that wrapped behind the Keep, through Cook's garden, before it joined with the the narrow footpaths leading between competitor tents. On the far side of the green, the prince could see the raised platform where the Royal and Ducal families were to be seated for the festivities. They already bustled with bodies dressed in bright, fashionable colors. The King stood to one side, talking with one of the fête officials, distinguishable even from this distance by his height.

In looks, the King and the Crown Prince were nearly identical, fair-haired and dark-eyed, with sharp features and broad hands. But in stature, Aubrey was of a head with his bearer and much more slight through the back and waist as was more commonly seen in omegas, lacking as they were in the testosterone necessary for broader bone structures.

Aubrey was deft and quick, comfortable on his feet and possessing considerable stamina thanks to his penchant for taking long hikes over uncharted terrain.

Now, he and Winston wove their way through the clamor of servants and peasants gathered behind the scenes, carrying equipment and leading horses and generally making a great clamor as officials blew on horns across the field to try and quiet everyone down so that the opening speeches could be given.

There was a certain kind of electricity that vibrated through those present for the fête. A sort of freneticism that in turn injected a rush of adrenal into Prince Aubrey's blood. Despite himself, he felt a thrill race through him at the sight and sound of so many busy people gathered in one place—both like and unlike the market after the first spring harvest, when all of the fresh fruits and vegetables, the suckling pigs and new cuts of beef, were available after a long cold winter of preserves—at the smell of freshly cut lawn and leather as the contestants began to gather outside their tents. They wore short archery coats, gloves and arm guards, while their servants carried bows and quivers full of freshly fletched arrows.

"Are you rooting for anyone in particular?" the prince asked his manservant in a quiet voice while they waited for a trio leading wet horses from the wash area to a paddock set up behind the tent area to pass by.

Winston looked thoughtful for a second, absently stroking a hand through his closely cropped beard. "I hadn't settled on a champion yet. There's a fair number have shown up this year though." He side-eyed the prince with a quirk of his brow.

The prince flapped his hand. "Yes, so I've been warned against."

"At least they have good taste," he said, cheeky.

"It's nothing to do with taste. I could be a brainless lump of mud and they still would have shown up in droves."

"Now, now, your highness, don't go selling yourself short. I'm sure at least a third are only here for your handsome face."

Aubrey grimaced and shoved the Hon. Winston's shoulder, making the other man laugh his obnoxious, braying laugh just as their path cleared and they began walking again.

A little farther away, in a plain brown tent, the sixteen year old Sir Elsa Riven took deep, measured breaths in an effort to calm the sparrows racing around in her stomach.

Forget sparrows, it felt like she had a whole aviary in there.

She was not the only young alpha in the fête, nor the only woman, but it would be her first moment in front of so many eyes and Elsa feared making a fool of herself. Not only because she imagined such a shameful performance would dog her steps for the next ten or twenty years—rather she feared how it might effect her brother's endeavors. House Riven remained, Dierik having so far managed to hold the territory against all encroaching parties, but in eight years their enemies still made small incursions, still worked to chip away at their family's holdings. Any show of weakness would only make them bolder.

She looked to her brother now, but he was as stoic as he ever was, seated on a low camp stool near the entrance to her tent and reading a scrap of parchment. Elsa knew it would be useless to ask what it had to say—her brother chose to keep his own council when it came to his spy network. Instead she turned and held her arms out at her sides.

"Well?" she prompted him.

Dierik gave her a distracted look. "Ready?"

"No words of advice?"

"I've never competed here myself."

"No, you wouldn't."

Dierik rolled up the scrap of paper and secreted it away in his coat. He crossed the room to her side to check the laces on her guards.

"You know your own skill," he said. "Trust in that. It's the only thing you can trust here." Then he left her to find his seat amongst the other nobles.

The Tri-fête was intended to test the skills of the noble alphas in times when they had no other excuse to show off their martial prowess. The competition was spread out over several weeks to take into account the number of competitors. First, they had to display skill with a bow, to test their accuracy. Then came the steeplechase—a day long horse race over obstacles that tested both the rider's skill and his horse's stamina. It was followed by a marathon to test the horses' speed over the length of House Lyle's holdings. Those that passed these first trials went on to a round of jousting, followed by a gladiatorial melee. The alphas fought by rounds until only one remained; the winner thereafter declared the champion of the court, at least until the next fête.

It was not necessary to win. Simply putting in a good showing often went far in establishing the skill of a lord's son, earning them favor or contacts with other members of the nobility and the King's Guard. Many a hand in marriage had been taken following the fête.

Prince Aubrey and Winston arrived at their seats as the first of several contestants took the field.

The whole affair promised to be a very long day for the prince.

It would prove very dull to describe to the reader the events that followed in exacting detail. If you're of an opinion as the prince, then once you've seen one archery tournament, you've seen them all. And in many ways, this is an accurate description, for despite being a rather more complex test of the competitors' skills, even the fête boiled down to targets and men and women pointing an arrow at them.

All that is to say, we will imagine that the archery kicked off with some amount of fanfare and that the contestants either made a good show or fool of themselves according to their skill and dwell no further on the proceedings.

Instead, we will gloss over the particulars of the event much as the prince did, lost in his own thoughts as the only distraction from the tedium of the show. Prince Aubrey did not much live in his own head, despite being fond of books. He was an active sort and found a small amount of resentment festering in his breast the longer he was trapped between the jostling bodies of Duke Gagner's many children—all of them eager for a better view of the pitch.

The Hon. Winston was likewise distracted and could not be prevailed upon to discuss Aubrey's plans for the 'morrow. The prince had hoped to leave the Keep early, before the rest of the peerage was up and out of their beds and in that way make his escape from the grounds when no prying eyes were open to witness his egress. In retrospect, his plan might have been thought up prematurely—of course Winston would insist on sitting for more than just the first day of competition before bending to the prince's wishes.

The festivities took a recess for the rest of the day when the sun crested its highest point and everyone retired to cool off in the shade of the Keep and make preparations for a dance to be held that evening.

After ascertaining that the prince would not be requiring his services that afternoon, the Hon. Winston took his leave, muttering something about the farrier's schedule as he went.

Prince Aubrey scrubbed his hands through his short cropped hair and slipped through the crowd of noblemen and noble children, back the way he and Winston had come that morning. He considered how upset Cook would be if he tried hiding in her garden. Not too upset, he wagered, as long as he refrained from trampling any of her plants or crushing the vines.

He was distracted by a memory of the strawberries they had had with breakfast that morning when he bumped into a broad back.

Aubrey snapped his mouth closed at Lord Riven's look and wished his cheeks wouldn't flush so at the man's appearance.

"Your majesty."

"My lord," he inclined his head in the bare minimum of civility. He could admit, the Lord's reprimand the night before still stung.

"Please excuse me," Riven said without fanfare and turned back to the knight he had been speaking to. A closer look made their relation obvious, this must be Sir Elsa. She had the same dark coloring and height, though she looked pale and her expression was not even in the same neighborhood of severity as her brother's.

"Your grace," she said, bowing low and with a flourish that made the Lord Riven's frown deepen.

"You performed well this morning," Prince Aubrey told her before he could catch his mouth.

The compliment brought a flush of dark red color to Sir Elsa's face.

"I'm honored to hear you say so."

The three of them stood in awkward silence. It would be rude to run away but the prince was hard pressed to find something else to say, the Lord Riven looked unwilling to open his mouth, and his sister looked somewhat overwhelmed by their surroundings and the attention. He felt relieved when a familiar face appeared a short distance away. Sir Robert smirked at his look and inclined his head in a question. Prince Aubrey took the opportunity to bid his good days and meet the other alpha near his tent.

"Don't tell me you were actually trying to pry words out of Dierik there?"

"Believe me, I have no taste for fools errands," Aubrey replied, biting his lip against a smile. "Are you familiar with Lord Riven?"

"We were familiar in our youth, yes you could say that. I have not had the...pleasure...of his company in some time though. I fear his bite truly is as bad as his scowl."

"It is fearsome, isn't it?"

"Quite," Sir Robert laughed, throwing his head back in a way that bared a distracting amount of throat and made his glossy sable hair shine under the noon sun.

Prince Aubrey caught himself staring and quickly looked away.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to hold you up if you are expected elsewhere?"

"No," the prince rushed to assure the other man. "I—well that is to say, I was imagining an escape."

Sir Robert's grin widened. "An escape. And here at first I thought I might invite you in for a bite of lunch if you were not otherwise engaged."

The prince considered the richly draped tent behind Sir Robert—red and gold as were the colors of House Bourn. It was a tempting offer but so easily misconstrued if someone were to see them stepping inside together without Winston around to play the spare wheel.

"What are your feelings on strawberries?" he asked.

"My feelings," Sir Robert said, nonplussed, "are positive, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

"There's a bit of garden—I thought I might take lunch there, if you cared to join me?" Prince Aubrey gestured to one side where the path branched away from the competitors' area and behind the Keep.

"I would be delighted," Sir Robert said and made some incomprehensible gesture to his manservant. "Please, lead on."

So Prince Aubrey found a quiet bench amongst Cook's fruit trees and Sir Robert's manservant reappeared soon after with a tray laden with foods from the kitchen and a pitcher of chilled wine that he poured into glasses magiced seemingly out of thin air.

They passed a quiet hour together, talking much as they had the night before but this time of the fête. Sir Robert was not scheduled to compete until the next day, but he had many clever things to say about those that had gone that morning. It was easy to laugh at his impersonations of the other alphas, many of whom he seemed to be on quite familiar terms with. Though that was not wholly unexpected. Alphas and omegas often separated themselves in presentation cliques and many noble alpha sons and daughters trained together during the year under the King's Guard.

Before Prince Aubrey knew it, the food was gone, the wine all drunk, and the sun had slid past the high perch. He stretched his legs and shoulders out until the vertebra in his spine popped.

"I hope I have not kept you from any important duties."

"You needn't fret," the prince reassured his companion with a warm smile. "My duties are somewhat suspended while the fête is going on. If you had not agreed to sup with me I would have been forced to eat alone."

"That would have been a shame." Sir Robert stood and offered the prince a hand up. He bowed over it, his warm breath gusting across Aubrey's skin, before letting go. "You are too engaging a partner to leave to his own devices, I assure you."

The prince covered his pleased smile with a cough.

"Now, if you'll excuse me. There are things I must see to before tonight. Though, if I may—" Sir Robert turned back as though an idea had just struck him. "Will you will be attending the dance tonight?"

"Yes, I am expected to."

Sir Robert smirked and ducked his fingers against the Prince's chin, catching him by surprise. It was a very forward gesture to be made by a man he'd only recently been on intimate speaking terms with.

"Then could I request you reserve a dance for me?"

"If you're looking for a partner well versed in the social graces to show you off, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. My dance master always described my efforts as adequate rather than graceful."

"I will not be disappointed," he replied.

"Then I'll reserve something, a—"

"The sarande, perhaps?"

The prince pressed his lips together and felt his heart kick up a faster beat.

"I—very well, the sarande, if that is what you wish."

"It is," Sir Robert said, bowing over the prince's hand again before taking his leave of him in the garden.

Prince Aubrey flexed his empty fingers and stared into the branches of an apple tree without seeing the gnarly curls or ripening fruits. A loud crash from the direction of the kitchens startled him out of his thoughts.

He thought to pass the afternoon in quiet preparation for the dance to follow, especially seeing as Winston remained absent after the lunch hour passed. But fate seemed to have something else in mind. No sooner had he ascended the stairs to the Keep's primary wing, than he was once again accosted by the sight of Lord Riven in his path. The man practically commanded the air around him until it seemed as though his presence filled the entire hallway.

What was it about the Lord that made him appear whenever Aubrey caught a moment to himself?

Prince Aubrey paused in his tracks. The Lord Riven did not appear to notice his approach as his body was turned towards the closed library door, his head cocked ever so to the side and his attention seemingly caught by whatever he was listening for.

It was no large act of courage to march up to Riven and clear his throat. He was the Crown Prince of the realm and this was his home. He would not be made cautious in it by a Lord draped in rumor and mayhem. And if he took some measure of joy in the way Riven's shoulders tightened and jerked when he announced his presence, well, that too was a princely right of sorts.

Riven turned his eyes on the prince but did not reply.

"What do you think you're doing, lurking out here in the hallway?"

"I was just leaving."

"Would you lie to me?" Prince Aubrey barred the other man's exit. "Answer the question."

A noise behind the door made Riven glance at it sharply. Before Prince Aubrey knew what he was planning, the other man had hastened him into an alcove across the hall and drawn the curtain back until they were obscured in the shadows.

The prince would be ashamed to describe the noise he made then as a "squawk" but really, there is no better word to use. He squawked in a very inelegant way and grabbed the Lord Riven's right wrist where his hand pressed into Prince Aubrey's waist.

"Do not speak," Riven murmured into his ear.

Prince Aubrey kicked viciously at the man's shin but other than a short wince, he betrayed no other reaction.

"You act beyond your station sir, unhand me before I unhand you. You dare take such liberties with the royal body?"

"I mean to take no liberties with your person, I assure you, your grace. Now please be silent."

Furious, he clenched his teeth on a retort and waited for whatever had prompted the Lord's actions to present itself. Less than a minute later—a minute being the precise amount of time, though pressed together in a dark space like this, it felt much longer—the door to the library opened just wide enough to permit a very slight person to exit. Prince Aubrey strained his neck to try and get a better view but it was impossible with Lord Riven's weight keeping him pressed against the wall.

Only once the sound of footsteps had completely faded did the Lord Riven release him. Aubrey jerked the other man back before he could slip away in a similar fashion.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded in a falsely measured voice.

Lord Riven stared down at him, silent and resolute, until Aubrey felt like he had only the flimsiest grasp on his temper. He was not a particularly hotheaded individual and the rush of blood to his head, the swift manner in which his emotions flared up in the face of that silence, left him spinning.

"Don't you have something to say for yourself?"

Riven pulled his arm away from the prince, his expression blank. "Be wary, your grace."

"Wary of what?"

But the Lord Riven refused to say anything else and walked away despite Prince Aubrey making a quiet scene behind him. There was no one in the hallway to see him losing his collected demeanor.

Discomfited, Prince Aubrey yanked open the library door but the room was empty. No mysterious figures lurking about, no mess to suggest someone had been in to rifle through the King's collection of literature, no dead body lying on the floor behind the sofa, nothing to indicate anything untoward had been going on first to peek Lord Riven's curiosity or second to inspire his manhandling.

Prince Aubrey felt wrong footed the rest of the afternoon as he tried first to read in his quarters and then while dressing for the dance. He couldn't shake off the sense memory of Lord Riven's broad hand against his side, the iron strength evident in his fingers, the heat of him, his exhalations against Aubrey's skin—all of it lingering in his head like a phantom tingling sensation.

He walked down to the dance alone and arrived a little while after it was in full swing. There was music and food, clumps of loud, laughing people littering the long hall which had been cleared of its feasting table, and in the very center a space made for dancing. Already a half dozen couples were engaged in a complicated country dance that involved a great deal of twirling around in a circle and exchanging partners as the dancers moved up and down the room.

The alphas and male betas wore colorful doublets with excessively slashed sleeves, striped hose and slippers. The beta and omega women were dressed in flowing, layered stolas cut from airy fabrics that emphasized the movement of their hips and thighs.

The prince had chosen a mode of dress that fell somewhere in between: a narrow tailored doublet in pale blue, with fitted sleeves that emphasized the supple strength in his arms, cut and laced to his waist, spotless white hose and slippers, and over his doubtlet, a white chamlys that fell in smooth waves over his left shoulder. His head remained uncovered and uncrowned—it may have been an unpopular choice to leave the crown circlet out of his wardrobe, but he hated the way the metal rubbed his skin, the unnecessary weight of the thing. There were some who would not hesitate to point out the irony of that metaphorical weight and draw disparaging conclusions about his disinclination to bear it, but Prince Aubrey had learned young the prudence in keeping the court out of one's dressing room.

Upon his entrance, a hush fell over those nearest the door, their eyes turning to examine him with disquieting synchronicity, almost as though all of their heads were attached to marionette strings pulled by a single hand.

Prince Aubrey waited until the members of the court each dipped into a respectful bow, altogether a wave folding before him, and inclined his head in acknowledgement. From across the hall, he caught his father's eye and made his way presently to the dais upon which his parents' thrones were set. He knelt at the King's feet and kissed his signet ring with appropriate respect.

The King regarded him with a quiet, pleased expression and said, "I hope you will try to enjoy yourself tonight, Allushka," calling him by the pet name his maternal grandmother had favored. She'd hailed from Sibury and always said the sound reminded her of the sea. Tonight, it caught him off guard, disarmed the tension he'd been carrying before he even realized that he'd relaxed his shoulders.

"I know it would please you, father, I will try," he replied, bowing his head again, feeling very young all of a sudden under the King's keen gaze.

"That's all that I ask."

Aubrey pressed a kiss to his bearer's cheek as he stood and then he moved away from their thrones, eyes scanning the throng for a glimpse of Winston's red hair—usually easy to distinguish from the neutral coifs favored by the nobility. He was resigned after a few minutes to catch sight of his manservant on the far side of the dance floor, surrounded by young women and men, and speaking animately with his hands.

It seemed that he might have to venture through the dancers themselves and suffer the Hon. Winston's penchant for drawing a crowd after all when a flash of red caught his attention from the corner of his eye.

Less than twenty feet away, through the crush of warm bodies, Lord Riven turned from his sister—who was discussing the state of her horse's shoes quite animatedly with a ginger whose name he had already forgotten but whom he'd seen in the company of the Crown Prince on more than one occasion. The prince himself was no where to be seen.

The Lord Riven kept a wary eye on the other revelers. He was not a man much comfortable in crowds. Too easy to hide ill intent in a crush, too difficult to catch sight of an attacker coming until they'd already slipped a knife between your ribs. And perhaps his Lordship was too paranoid, holding onto such misgivings at a celebration such as this, but eight years of near constant infighting with one's neighbors will leave anyone paranoid, most of all a man who had had the misfortune of watching his family home burned to the ground by the King's own brother. When one has been the target of first ducal spite and second noble greed, one learns to guard what few possessions they still have with a wary and watchful eye.

As it was, he had more than his and his sister's safety preoccupying his thoughts that evening. Everywhere his eyes landed he expected to see a villain in fancy dress, hiding behind clean scrubbed skin and silky fabrics. The ostentatious ornamentations of the dancers could as easily obscure a knife as a soft-waisted curve.

Scuffles with the other noble houses wishing to snatch up bits and pieces of the Riven estate had prompted Lord Riven to cultivate a network of intelligent, loyal, and crushingly efficient spies—the recruits pulled from his most trusted servants, the ones who had been his companions in childhood, who were accustomed to hearing everything around them with no one noticing their presence.

Through them he had managed to stay informed of both the movements of his enemies at court and farther afield, as far as Dunland across the sea. From Seabs' lips he'd learned that it was none other than House Bourn who had contracted mercenaries from the Dunish flatlands to harry his northern borders—a piece of information that might not have prompted his current presence at the High Court if not for—

A crash from his left prompted Lord Riven to turn, hand already going for the hilt of a concealed knife. Beside him, his sister sprung to attention, her conversation with the ginger forgotten as screams erupted from those nearest the King's dais.

"Is that—" she started but he was already moving, long stride thwarted by the people in his way.

Windows around the ballroom shattered, wind made the bright candlelit chandeliers flicker, and cloaked figures flooded the dance floor. In the space of a minute, the tone of the evening swung around and descended into chaos as members of the court fought one another to get out of the hall. The King's Guard rushed the room, their halberds sharp and foreboding in the exaggerated light.

Lord Riven glanced back to check Elsa's position at his back, her face drawn into anxious lines and her hand straying to the ornamental dirk sheathed at her side. It wasn't precisely fashionable for members of the court to come to a ball armed, but some allowances were given to alpha preferences—their ancient place as the wardens of society silently ingrained on the hindbrain—especially at an event like the fête when the gathered alphas were expected to be at their fiercest. He knew that under the gold filigree, she kept her blade keen.

The panicked dancers finally parted before the Lord and Sir Riven who joined the bulk of the King's Guard. The captain, a Sir Jas LaRoux, was a solid blond man in his early forties, six and a half feet if he was an inch, and dressed in leather and maille. He made sharp, economical signals with his left hand that had his guardsman encircling the King and his Consort in under a minute.

Somewhere in the crush, Lord Riven became separated from Elsa. The next time he looked for her, he caught a glimpse of her surcoat on the other side of Sir LaRoux.

Around them the mysterious, cloaked figures descended. They seemed unperturbed by the appearance of so many sharp swords and fell upon the guard with a certain bloodthirsty abandon that sent a chill through Lord Riven's body. He drew his dagger and dispatched one who lunched at him, sticking him dispassionately between the ribs and twisting until the cloaked body went heavy and slack in his hands. The hood fell back to reveal a pale face of a male beta in his early twenties—the lining of his cloak an all too familiar purple.

It was as he suspected and feared. Mercenaries from Dunland had made it down the River Eslan as far as Lyle.

Lord Riven stood and parried another attack. The melee increased in fervor as the hooded figures attempted to break the line between themselves and the King. The quick response of Sir LaRoux and his men may have thwarted what little upper hand their surprise attack had granted them but Lord Riven knew full well they would not be put off their target, not when the King was within spitting distance.

He could see LaRoux's attempt to get the King out of the middle of the fray but there was one face absent.

A fist demanded his attention. Hot blood flooded Riven's mouth as his teeth split his bottom lip. He staggered and brought his left arm up to block the follow-through. He grappled with assailant, losing his footing on the slick dance floor and going down hard. It jarred his bones. He was no stranger to violence but he did tend to pick his battles in needled forests and grassy planes, rather than unyielding castles.

Instinct more than anything got him up on top of the woman trying to bash his scull in. He got his hands up around her throat and struck her head against the ground. When she had gone limp under him, he swayed to his feet and looked around, eyes suddenly desperate for a glimpse of shorn blond hair.

Had the Crown Prince even made it down to the hall before the attack? He couldn't remember if there had been an announcement, but then again, he hadn't been paying the event itself much attention.

That was the moment his gaze landed on a a flash of sky blue and white—House Lyle's colors—being dragged between two black figures out a broken window.

The bile in him rose up. The King's Guard were too distracted with protecting the King, as was their duty. It was but the work of a moment to run after the prince's kidnappers.

## **CHAPTER FOUR**

### **_An Interlude_**

###

Prince Aubrey woke and wished in the next breath that he hadn't bothered waking. His entire body hurt but especially the pulse throbbing in the back of his head.

For one brief, joyless moment, he tried to recall just how much he must have drunk at the dance before memory slammed into him. He reeled back as far as the ropes around his arms and legs would allow and muffled the resulting groan.

He forced himself to remain calm and quiet as he let his senses wake up. After all, kidnappings are not altogether unknown amongst royalty and for that reason, he had been instructed on the sort of behavior one should exhibit in just such a situation.

Prince Aubrey worried for a second he was going to upchuck his stomach but he lay very still until the urge passed and was gratified to hear his captors whispering furiously not too far off to his right.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, you right idjut? You weren't supposed to kidnap the sodding prince!"

"I say, Orny! I say, I saw an opportunity and I thought to myself—why not?"

"You saw a death wish is what you saw!" Orny—or so the man the prince assumed was Orny—exclaimed in a dirty shout. Both men shushed each other and their conversation quieted enough to make the words difficult for Aubrey to overhear.

He struggled to quiet his pounding heart.

"It's already treason, you burk, what's the problem if I try to make a little coin out of it? A death mark on my head's not worth jack shit."

"And just who do you think's going to pay for him now, eh? We killed the welp's parents!"

Aubrey felt his heart stutter and freeze before it resumed beating furiously in his chest. The urge to vomit returned and a vise clamped down around his ribs until he thought he might have stopped breathing altogether. It would be difficult to describe the acute feeling he experienced then, except to say it was something akin to having the carpet ripped out from under your feet only to realize that you're standing at the top of a long flight of stairs and like the plunge, the way your stomach flips through your body as your body succumbs uncontrollably to gravity.

"Damn it," the other man cursed and banged something that made a resounding _clang!_ in the dusk. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Obviously not. God damn it. What are we going to do with the baggage now?"

Prince Aubrey felt their eyes turn on him.

"Well, look at that, his majesty has finally decided to join us in waking."

The prince clenched his teeth around the dirty rag in his mouth and glared up at his captors as they walked over to him. They both wore dark cloaks like the men who had interrupted the dance, though up close he could see the dirt caking their hems, evidence of a lengthy travel. He wondered who wanted his father dead badly enough to hire so many assassins to do the job.

The shorter man squatted down next to Aubrey's head and jerked his face up to get a better look in the poor light. He had a deep scowl on his face and when he spoke, it was obvious he had been the first speaker, the one the other man had referred to as "Orny."

"I guess I have to admit, at least he's nice to look at." He shoved Aubrey's head back into the dirt and stood. "If you're interested in fucking a sweet little pussy like his, that is."

The other man cackled under his breath.

Orny spun on him and pointed a thick finger in his face. "Don't think that means you're off the hook. Fool stupid idea all around and you're an idjut for taking him. Now we got to figure out a way of disposing him."

It was a troubling choice of words, _disposal_. At least if they attempted to ransom him, it would take some time and time could provide a window of escape. But if this Orny villain was so sure such an attempt would be more trouble that it was worth, they might just kill him here and now, leave his body in a ditch for one of the Lockslaggan runners to find and be done with it.

Dread pressed down on the grief bubbling through his system and turned his stomach to lead. He might not long outlive his fathers after all.

His two captors left him alone for the present moment, moving away again to resume whispering.

Aubrey craned his head around as far as his bound position would allow, trying to orient himself but it was difficult to see anything in the low light. Once it had made up its mind, night fell quickly in Lyle due to the higher altitude in the steppes. By the shadows of the trees and the sound the cool wind made, he might have put his position a little northeast of the Keep, but he couldn't be certain.

It was as he took stock of his situation, working his wrists raw behind his back, trying to work out any give in the rope, that a strangled shout pierced the night from one of his captors. Aubrey froze, eyes wide and unseeing now in the dark. The sound of bodies hitting the ground was rather like the sound a sack of flour makes when Cook threw it into the larder, but flour did not cry out and shout. After a minute the sounds quieted and Aubrey waited, hardly daring to breath as soft footsteps approached him.

He waited tensed, fully expecting to be gutted at any moment by whomever was there with him when broad hands reached out, blindly feeling around until they found his body. He jerked away but the hands were insistent.

"Stop struggling," a low voice berated him and the prince froze. He knew that voice, though it did not lend itself to lengthy speeches.

"My lord," he breathed, still caught somewhere between relief and confusion.

"Your majesty," Lord Riven murmured and slid a blade of some sort through the rope around his wrists. The bindings fell away and the other man helped him sit up.

"Are you well?" Lord Riven asked and Aubrey wished all of a sudden that he could see the man's face, see what sort of expression would be written there? Would there be an expression at all or would he appear as stoic now, hands firm around Aubrey's arms and breath warm against his face, as he had at dinner the night before?

"I—" his voice cracked and he gritted his teeth. "As well as can be expected I think. I am not particularly used to kidnappings."

"Then it is good this should be such a brief taste." Lord Riven urged him to his feet, never letting up his hold for which Aubrey felt somewhat grateful. Between the head wound and the excess adrenaline, the shock of it all, he felt a little shaky on his feet.

"My father!" he said, recalling his kidnapper's claim.

"Is safe, the last I saw of him, surrounded by his Guard."

Relief made Aubrey sag further in Lord Riven's capable hands.

"Are you certain you are well?" Lord Riven asked.

Aubrey started to nod but a sharp pain across his eyes thwarted the movement. He winced and reached back and felt the distinctive sticky texture blood leaves behind under his fingers.

"I think one of those men clocked me rather well in the back of my head," he admitted.

Lord Riven made a frustrated noise and turned Aubrey like he planned to inspect the wound but the prince slapped his hand away.

"You can't see anything without a light. Just get me home. How—we can't be far."

"No, your captors were simpletons. We're less than a mile from the Keep."

"Good for me, it didn't give you any trouble finding me."

Lord Riven began to guide him away from the clearing, though how he could make heads or tails of their direction—well, no, that's not true. Aubrey supposed if he felt less like he was one wrong step away from passing out, he too could look up and find the familiar constellations overhead to guide himself home by. As it happened, he was abjectly glad to leave the navigating to Lord Riven for the time being.

"I was fortunate enough to witness their making off with your person during all of the chaos. It was not especially hard to catch up with them, nor wait for a chance to strike."

"Yes," Aubrey murmured. He felt his head nodding on his shoulders, his thoughts thick and fuzzy around the edges. "Yes, I am very grateful."

At some point, to his later chagrin, the Crown Prince slipped unconscious.

## **CHAPTER FIVE**

### **_The Conspirators_**

###

Prince Aubrey's next wakening was far more pleasant than the last. The pain in his head had subsided under the warm, floaty cotton of a pain draught. He'd been stripped of his dirty clothes and left in his bed beneath the fluffiest duvet he'd ever seen.

Beside his bed, the Hon. Winston jerked out of his slouched position and reached across the bedding to grasp his hand.

"You gave us a right terrible fright when no one could find you."

Aubrey smiled thinly and clasped their fingers tight together.

"You worried for me, Dupes? But just imagine—if I did vanish, no one would force you to go traipsing all over the countryside on foot."

"Oh, shut your face—like I'd ever be grateful for that." He leaned down and pressed a dry, chaste kiss against the prince's knuckles and Aubrey pretended not to see him dry his face against his shirtsleeve.

After a bit of quiet between them, Winston cleared his throat and said, "That Lord Riven is quite the fearsome sort, isn't he? You should have seen him when he appeared at the gates with you."

Aubrey felt a blush suffuse his cheeks. "Oh?" he prompted his manservant to continue, aiming for casual and fairly certain he'd missed his mark, though thankfully Winston gave him no knowing glances.

"Oh yes, dressed all in those dark fabrics he favors and covered in blood, carrying your limp body like some feinting bride." And here the Hon. Winston cracked a grin and widened his eyes at the prince's outraged squawk. "His sister's not too bad either. Threw herself into the fray right properly. Might make a few of the others reconsider their bets before the melee, if you take my meaning."

The Hon. Winston stood and retrieved a pitcher of water and a glass from the side table and helped the prince sit up so he could quench his dry throat.

"Surely this is cause enough to cancel the whole business," Prince Aubrey said with a groan when he was done.

"You'd like that."

"Indeed—perhaps I arranged this whole business to do just that."

Winston honked a laugh but he sobered too quickly, taking his seat by the bed once more. He was armed, the prince noted, a sword and a wicked dagger strapped prominently to his hip, though he was not the sort of man who regularly walked around with his sword on display—literally or metaphorically.

"There's going to be hell to pay, ferreting out who they were."

Prince Aubrey sank back against his pillows and closed his eyes.

"The men who took me, they said they were getting paid—not for me. Paid to kill the King. Apparently my kidnapping was a spur of the moment decision."

"Unlucky for them. Riven said he took care of them..." Winston said, his voice trailing off in question.

Aubrey nodded sharply.

"I think he killed them."

"He was right to. Assassins for the King, kidnappers and who knows what else."

His manservant's face grew stormy in a way that was alien to the prince, fierce and stony where he was used to grumbling amusement. A glance at the sword near to Winston's hand, it was obvious that the situation was indeed serious, as though the events of his own evening weren't evidence enough on their own.

Eventually the prince slipped into a light sleep at his manservant's pestering, though he found it difficult to quiet his racing thoughts and Aubrey found himself startling awake every hour until the sun rose and he gave up on resting.

Winston snored from his uncomfortable perch on the chair next to the prince's bed, his fingers twitching against the hilt of his weapon. The sight brought a warm flush to the prince's chest. He would never doubt the man's loyalty, but it felt nice to have the evidence of it pressed into his thoughts like this.

He rose and cleaned himself in the water closet attached to his suite. A maid slipped in to light the fireplace while he was struggling into a clean pair of pants.

"Would his majesty like a hand?" she asked in a quiet voice so as not to disturbed Winston.

"No, I have it, thank you. But—perhaps a tray?"

"Of course, sire." She nodded a bow and disappeared.

Prince Aubrey paused lacing his trousers to better examine the abraded skin on his wrists. The damage hadn't looked quite so obvious last night when he'd been talking to Winston, but now he couldn't help running his eyes over the scabs where his struggles had drawn lines of blood and the bright red irritation left behind by the rope encircling his wrists all the way around.

The door swung open behind him. Assuming it to be the maid returning with breakfast he gestured to the table on his left without turning and said, "Just leave it there, thank you."

"I'm afraid to disappoint, but I do not have anything to leave at the moment." Lord Riven's voice made him jump.

Prince Aubrey flushed down his naked chest. Indecision whether to turn or to keep his back to the alpha made him freeze.

"Did the guards let you in?"

"Yes. I said you had business with me."

"Do I?" Aubrey grabbed the thin linen shirt draped over his mirror and pressed it to his chest before he looked back at Lord Riven. The other man stood a polite distance away, his hands clasped in front of himself in a demure gesture and his eyes fixed to the other side of the room.

"You are well?"

"Yes. You have my gratitude for the timely service you rendered me last night."

Lord Riven bowed his head, his eyes finally coming around to meet the Prince's before they lowered again.

"I hoped that we might discuss that."

"Oh?" Aubrey slipped on his shirt and reminded himself that it would do no good to fidget in front of the alpha. The maid he'd sent for breakfast reappeared then and left the tray on his table. She had brought silverware and food enough for two, no doubt expecting the Hon. Winston to join him as was common, and she poured a second cup of tea without prompting. Prince Aubrey released her services when she was finished and cleared his throat.

"Have you had breakfast yet this morning?"

Lord Riven looked—his expression flickered for a second, the neutral scowl falling away as he met the prince's eyes.

"I—no, your majesty, I have not."

"Would you—" He gestured to the seat across from him. Lord Riven hesitated but sat, folding his long legs under the table until their knees bumped together. Prince Aubrey made each of them a plate so that he would not give into the urge to blush any redder under the Lord Riven's gaze.

"So," he prompted after he had sipped his tea and regained some small measure of composure.

"I am afraid that there might have been more I could do," Riven said.

"You dispatched my kidnappers and saw me back to the Keep. I don't see any sort of deficiency in your actions."

"The other day, outside the library—"

Just that simple reminder was enough to send the blood zinging through Aubrey's veins as he remembered the other man's hands on him, the hot breath against his skin. He was only just twenty, he could not be faulted for the hardness it brought to his groin, thankfully hidden by the table.

"What about it?"

"I must tell you my reasons for coming to Lyle," Lord Riven said in a stilted voice, too loud for the quiet morning light.

"For the fête, you mean?"

"No. No, the fête was just a fortuitous excuse. I am afraid that for some time now I've suspected—"

"My god, do I smell Cook's pork buns? You better have saved me one!" the Hon. Winston hollered from the prince's bedroom at a volume that could have woken the dead—assuming a member of the dead were foolish enough to attempt sleeping in on this particular morning. It was abrasive enough to cause even Lord Riven to jump a little in his seat.

Before the prince could stop him, the Lord Riven had stood, his plate and cup untouched. He bowed and said under his breath, "Will you meet me later?"

"Yes," Prince Aubrey replied without hesitating. "The library, after the eleventh bell."

"Very well." The man swept out of his suite without making a sound just as Winston stumbled through his bedroom door, bleary-eyed and his doublet unlaced. He struggled out of the padded garment and left it draped across a footstool as he took Lord Riven's vacated seat.

"I'm sorry, did I hear you talking to someone in here?" he asked around a sip of tea.

"No, there was nothing."

"Jolly good of you," Winston said, gesturing with what was in fact one of Cook's pork buns, which he promptly stuffed into his mouth.

They ate in companionable silence once the prince had reassured his manservant that he was feeling quite recovered from the events of the previous evening. It was not a lie, other than a lingering soreness in his head from the blow, he felt wide-awake.

"I'm to check in with the Captain of the Guard this morning, let him know there was no further ruckus in this neck of the Keep. Will you be all right here by yourself for half an hour?"

"I'm not lying on death's door," Prince Aubrey replied, unable to stop the note of petulance that wormed its way into his tone. He appreciated the concern, enjoyed it even, but not the insinuation that he wouldn't be perfectly safe in his own apartments with a guard detachment right outside.

The Hon. Winston set his cup down with a clack of the delicate china and stared hard at his master. "There has not been an assassination attempt on House Lyle in either of our lifetimes—let alone one anywhere near the magnitude of what we saw last night. If anything happened to you—" Winston looked away. "I'd lop of my own head and present it to the King if anything happened to you while I was on watch."

"Dupes."

Winston stood and shrugged back into last night's doublet, tightening the laces with quick angry jerks.

"Thank you," Aubrey murmured and touched his friend's elbow before he left. The standing timepiece in the corner chimed the ninth hour. He had some time to distract himself before his scheduled rendezvous with Lord Riven and little idea how to fill it. He didn't dare leave the suite after he'd promised Winston he'd stay put, and he didn't know where he'd go even were he to wander off.

They sky outside his window let in cool grey light. Clouds lay thick and low across the sky, threatening rain later.

He wondered what would happen in the coming days. Had any of the other attackers been taken alive? If there had, they would be questioned to discover the person pulling their strings, and once all of the information had been extracted from them, well, one did not attempt to kill a king without suffering some serious punishment.

He was not fond of beheadings and considered it fortuitous that his father's justice only demanded such an extreme measure for the worst offenders.

The Hon. Winston reappeared while he was lost in his thoughts and brought the King and the Prince Consort with him.

Sir James wasted no time chivying his son into a thicker tunic to ward off the chill and ordered more tea be brought to his rooms.

The King ran his hands over Aubrey's shoulders and looked him in the eye for a long time, until he squirmed, unsure whether he felt discomfited or reassured by the examination.

"I'm fine," he protested.

The Prince Consort wrapped one of Aubrey's hands up in both of his. "You will forgive us for wishing to see that for ourselves. When we realized you had disappeared from the hall..." His face pinched, still pale and drawn, and prompting the prince to nudge his chair closer to his bearer's, until Aubrey could rest his head against his shoulder. Sir James laughed wetly and swiped his hand through his son's hair in an unconscious gesture left over from a childhood full of straightening unruly hair.

"Do we know who orchestrated the attack?"

The King drew his mouth down in an unhappy line and stared out the window. The rain had finally begun to fall.

"Do not trouble yourself about that. Captain LaRoux is looking into it. In fact, I must return to the wardroom." He looked unhappy by this and torn between his duty as king and his desire to stay there with his only child, but Prince Aubrey stood and kissed his father's signet ring—a sign of respect, a reassurance, and a reminder that he understood the ways in which they were all slaves to their throne.

A little before eleven, a servant appeared to call the Prince Consort away for a meeting with the King—there would be decisions to be made about their next moves then. Prince Aubrey just felt relieved that he would not have to make up an excuse to leave his rooms without his bearer.

He arrived at the library a little after the bells and found Lord Riven already there, waiting for him. The alpha bowed stiffly and took one halting step towards him before he restrained himself.

"Thank you for coming," he said.

"I said I would. I must admit, I could hardly have resisted; you've peeked my curiosity these past days, my lord."

Lord Riven gave him a dry look. "I find that difficult to believe."

"You doubt me?"

"I doubt I am as fascinating as Sir Robert." But there Lord Riven bit off his words and clenched his jaw.

"Excuse me?"

The Lord Riven visibly gathered his composure, settling his face into less of a scowl that the prince would have called his "resting mien" but something more serious than simple neutrality.

"I hoped that I might speak to you in confidence. That is—I have not many friends at court, but I hope that the rumors of your..."

The prince raised his eyebrows, shocked by what he supposed to be coming next.

"Your skills at diplomacy are not exaggerated and that the service I rendered to you last night might prove the worth behind my intentions."

"Sir," Prince Aubrey said, feeling of a sudden shaky and wrong-footed. Lord Riven couldn't mean to _propose_ like this. Could he? The prince could scarcely breathe for shock.

"For some time now I have suspected ill-intentions resided in the hearts of a particular member of your father's council. It was these suspicions that compelled me to join my sister at the fête this year. I had hoped to gather more explicit evidence to present to the King. As you can imagine," he continued, pacing back and forth across the floor before a stunned prince, "such an accusation— _treason_ , that is—is not a claim to make about a rival house without irrefutable proof. I have no wish to be branded a paranoid cur on top of whatever else they say about me within these walls."

"They do not use those words, precisely," Prince Aubrey said in a subdued voice. He felt his neck, hot under the collar, and was grateful that he hadn't made any precipitous declarations before the Lord Riven's intentions had been laid truly bare. "Then you mean to say, you know who was behind the attempt last night?"

"I believe so."

"But you did not take your suspicions directly to the King?"

"I still do not have any proof," he snapped. "The situation itself has not altered, merely the timeline from which I suspected our enemies to be working from."

"'Our'?"

Lord Riven shot him a hooded glance. "The loyalties of House Riven remain. Any enemies of the King are my enemies as well." The conviction in his tone shot straight through Prince Aubrey's breast, sharp and piercing, until there was no room left for doubt.

Before he could come up with some sort of appropriate reply, the Lord Riven had pulled two scraps of fabric from a pocket of his surcoat. He held them out to be examined.

"The fabric on the left was taken from the lining of a cloak worn by a mercenary that first fell upon my borders six months ago. There have been almost constant attacks by similarly attired regiments since. So far I have managed to keep them from taking any territory of note, but it has not been easy. Their numbers are inexhaustible. My vassals kill ten—twenty—and within a fortnight there are three dozen more to take their place.

"This second lining was taken from the cloak of one of your abductors last night. If you look closely you can see that the weaves are identical and unlike anything commonly produced amongst the houses of the High Court. My court alchemist says that the dyes used in the first cloak come from some sort of mollusk not found on our shores. I would wager quite a lot that this second sample is the same."

Prince Aubrey took the two scraps of fabric and held them up against the light. He was not a naturalist, but even he could tell that it was a shade of purple he'd never seen before.

"In that case, where are they coming from?"

"My best eyes say Dunland."

"What? You must be joking. There is no kingdom left there—no one to make any army let alone one the size you describe."

"And yet. There is more. I do not believe that these soldiers are acting alone. You said yourself last night that your attackers mentioned a backer; someone was paying them."

"Yes."

Here the Lord Riven hesitated.

"Speak if you will, my lord, do not leave me in suspense."

"House Bourn has long envied my family's holdings," Lord Riven said in a low voice, low enough the prince might not have caught the words if he were not waiting so anxiously for each and every one. The implications fell like pinpricks against his skin, raising the gooseflesh. Prince Aubrey licked his dry lips.

"They are not the only house with such an envy," he said slowly.

"No," Lord Riven replied, his tone bitter and eyes dark. He stopped his pacing before the prince and made as though to reach out to him, large hands grasping at the empty air. "But my spies have tracked men wearing cloaks made of this fabric crossing the River Eslan at Stevanger without meeting any resistance. One was seen riding to the very gate of House Bourn's summer retreat at the North Inlet. As I said, superficial proof at best, which is why I am bringing it to your lordship first."

"To what end? Do you expect me to present it to the King myself? Do you think that will soften this outrageous blow in some way?"

"No! To help me finish my surveillance efforts before taking anything before your father."

"You mean to have me spy for you?" Prince Aubrey laughed, short and sharp. He didn't know how to feel. He tried to imagine Sir Robert paying off a horde of soldiers of fortune to cross the Great North Sea to kill the King and couldn't stop his derisive snort. The whole idea was absurd. Lord Bourn had been one of his father's companions in their youth. His loyalty was beyond suspect. Aubrey considered now just how deep the bitterness ran in Lord Riven to trump up such a fanciful charge.

"You do not believe me," the alpha said. His mouth turned down in a pinched line.

"I think you're out of bounds, yes. I think you are making connections where none exist. Lord Bourn has no reason to plot against my father. _He_ is not so out of favor with the High Court."

Lord Riven snarled and advanced on the prince who stood his ground, raising his chin in the face of the other man's outburst. He refused to flinch before the alpha's displeasure. He was a prince of the realm and he would not bend like a willow even in the fjord's fiercest current.

"You would accuse me of falsehood then? Of such blatant lies as these would be? To what purpose?"

"A very obvious one—your discrediting House Bourn serves you the same purpose as their march on—" The Prince bit off his heated words.

"Their march on _my_ lands, aye. I will grant you, that damn river has always been a point of contention between us. But I would not risk making a fool of myself for it. Eight years we've held well enough without the support of this court. The House Riven will endure, I promise you that my prince, with or without easy trade routes to the south. Could House Lyle make a similar claim if I am proved right about Lord Bourn's involvement with these brigands?"

Prince Aubrey gritted his teeth against the other man's words. They stung, as much as they may swell with truth, they still implied a weakness in his own position—that he could not manage what Lord Riven had upon losing his own father.

The mere idea made the prince queasy. He did not relish inheriting his father's throne for some time, did not feel old enough in his boots for it.

"What would you have me do?" he murmured.

Lord Riven bowed his head so that they could exchange close, intimate words. "Continue to cultivate your flirtation with Sir Robert." The prince flinched. "Observe who speaks to him and what about. I will keep an eye on the father."

"Would you have me rifle through his personal belongings as well?"

"No. Merely his corresponded, should the opportunity to do so present itself."

"I cannot believe you, my lord."

"If you care anything for your father's well-being you should believe me, and you will do as I ask."

The prince nodded jerkily and stepped back, putting a safe and respectable distance between them just as the library door swung open under Sir Elsa's clever hands. She held the door open for the Hon. Winston who broke off a story about his boyhood pointer to stare between the prince and Lord Riven.

"I say, what's—" Whatever he might have been meaning to say was cut off by Sir Elsa treading none too subtly across his toes. She smiled and bowed to the prince and looked half a second away from laughing at her brother's face. To Aubrey's surprise, his manservant did not appear at all put out about the rough treatment of his riding boots and was somewhat taken aback by the long look he saw flit across Winston's face before he gathered his wits and elbowed Sir Elsa away with a brusque chuckle.

"What news, Dupes?" Prince Aubrey asked to forestall any awkward inquiries regarding his presence alone in the library with an unmarried alpha in front of said alpha's sister.

"Lunch, sire. The Prince Consort has requested you join him in his parlor for tea. Something about checking to make sure no one's carried you off again under all of our noses. If I had known I'd find you with his lordship." He tipped his head at Lord Riven and smirked very softly. "I would have reassured his majesty there was nothing for us to fear of that sort."

Prince Aubrey bustled his manservant out of the library with nary a backwards glance at the two Rivens before the Hon. Winston could do something so audacious as start _winking_ knowingly at them.

"You might have said you were having a secret rendezvous. I would have made your excuses to his majesty."

"I told you I would be in the library, it was hardly a secret."

"You know what I mean. He's a dashing fellow—bit severe, but then again, I've always thought you were a bit serious yourself. Suppose that sort of thing is appealing."

"Winston!"

"And he did render you a great service. What the poets like to call heroic, and all that."

Prince Aubrey rolled his eyes and walked that little bit faster to discourage Winston from saying anything else so utterly ridiculous.

## **CHAPTER SIX**

### **_The Plot_**

###

If he had been asked just the previous week if he expected to play the spy in this life or the next, Prince Aubrey would have answered soundly in the negative. He would argue that, though they were often conflated with one another, there was nothing intrinsically similar about diplomacy and espionage. Just because one often went hand-in-hand with the other did not mean they both had to be engaged to do the former effectively.

He was torn now when he met with Sir Robert. On the one hand he couldn't help feeling awkward at trying to pry into the other man's affairs, while simultaneously amused by his own success at securing the alpha's undivided attention. It made finding opportunities to go through his letters grossly simple.

The breach of privacy, however, proved nothing but distasteful. Every man was owed his secrets.

Three days had passed since Lord Riven's revelation in the library and his charge to snoop into House Bourn's affairs and so far the prince had turned up little of interest and nothing to suggest that, at the very least, Sir Robert was in any way involved.

Likewise, the Captain of the King's Guard had been unable to unearth any information about the assassins. None had survived the night alive and the bodies had produced little of use other than the same purple fabric Lord Riven had shown him before.

There was grumbling amongst the members of the court as the fête too had been put on hold in the interim as Captain LaRoux investigated those gathered. Prince Aubrey did not mind the event's curtailment but his father seemed ready to resume the competition in light of no new evidence surfacing.

"I will not allow an attempt on my person to rule the actions of my court. Especially a failed attempt. We should go on as though nothing had happened and if there are others out there gunning for my head let them come. We are ready for them," the King said over his pipe while his husband made resigned faces at their son.

Prince Aubrey had to admit there was a certain method to his father's thinking that was not wholly unwise. And so he nodded and murmured his agreement and went to meet Sir Robert in the garden for a midnight stroll under the white, waning moon. He'd had a note from the man earlier asking if they could speak just after the twelfth bell.

Instead of Sir Robert, however, he stumbled across Lord Riven standing under the night blooming jasmine.

The prince huffed out an impatient breath.

"What are you doing here?"

Lord Riven frowned, the movement of the shadows on his face clear enough even if the precise details were not.

"Have you done what I asked?"

"Yes, obviously, that's why I'm here."

Lord Riven snorted. "A midnight tryst—what would the courtiers say."

"Nothing they haven't whispered behind my back since I was sixteen," Aubrey retorted.

Lord Riven cocked his head but offered no immediate reply or condescension.

"Yes," the prince said when the silence stretched longer than felt comfortable. "I have done what you asked. But you will be sorry to hear that I've unearthed nothing incriminating. He writes very few letters and the only notes he receives are from his groom that I've seen. When he is with me we are not interrupted by anyone who you would consider suspicious and he has been nothing but attentive to my conversation."

Lord Riven took a step closer, so that between his advantage in height and the shadows surrounding them, he seemed to loom over the prince. The moonlight glittered tiny shards of diamonds across his eyes as they scraped over the omega's face, studying him too close, as those Lord Riven sought to strip him bare to his very soul. It made Aubrey's skin tingle and he was grateful it was impossible to see his blush in the dark.

"I do not believe," Lord Riven said, his words like water over sharp rocks, "it is your conversation to which he is attentive."

"I do not care for your meaning, sir."

"Do you deny it?"

"I deny that any impropriety has occurred between myself and Sir Robert."

"But it has not been a hardship to do what I ask?"

Lord Riven leaned in too close, until there seemed to be hardly any room left between them and the prince feared his heart might beat right out of his chest. He was relieved when, after a protracted space of seconds—though they felt like minutes, hours, days—the Lord Riven withdrew and the prince was able to leave his place crushed up against the Jasmine and search out his target.

Sir Robert proved little better though and before their twenty minutes was up, he had been so daring as to touch the prince's hair, the soft skin along the side of his neck, and his bare hand. Had leaned too close and smiled, his eyes lingering on the prince's mouth in a way that was unmistakable. Prince Aubrey wasn't surprised, of course he had cottoned onto the flirtatious nature of Sir Robert's attentions from their first conversation, but he had not fully expected the alpha to be so daring so quickly.

The attention was flattering, despite Lord Riven's suspicions about the other man. There was something unjaded about the way Sir Robert enticed him, something far less dark and complicated than how Lord Riven made him feel, something more straightforward in Robert's manner that soothed the jagged edges left behind after his other encounter that evening.

The fête resumed on the morrow with the rest of the archers. Prince Aubrey sat with Winston and his father's dukes and was careful to keep his eyes to himself except when Sir Robert took his place for the skills trial. Even then, he was uncomfortably aware of an acute tingle on the side of his face that made his whole skin feel over-tight.

There was no feast, but afterwards, he went down with Winston to where the other members of their ageset gathered to eat and drink ale.

It was by turns awkward and amusing. On his left, a young alpha kept shouting increasingly dirty stories to her companion and blushing each time she remembered who was seated next to her.

There were very few omegas present, mostly betas and alphas who did not plan to compete this year. Winston was well known and generally well-liked and his brothers—all betas like himself—were similarly liked so that they seemed to know everyone seated at the long table and everyone seemed to have a joke or a tease for them in reply. The prince was quite the odd man out but no one was yet drunk enough to actually say so and he bid his goodbyes before anyone reached such a state of inebriation.

The next day he made his excuses, packed a simple lunch and disappeared into the woods. He needed space to breathe, and while he had no doubt that a pair of the Captain's best trackers would be dogging his trail, the semblance of solitude was enough to sooth the headache threatening the prince's scull.

The prince set out down a walking path he'd traveled dozens of times over the past couple of years. The trail wound east away from the Keep for a couple of miles before heading north, following the high pass of the plateau upon which Castle Lyle was built. It was pleasant and not overgrown, but neither was it near any deer runs or prone to traffic by hunters, and too narrow for horse traffic.

Around mid-morning he stopped to rest his aching legs and let the sweat cool where it had pooled under his arms and on the back of his neck. He unclasped the chamlys he wore over his casual jerkin and spread it out on the ground. On another occasion he might have brought a sketchbook and taken notes on the bird's he had seen that morning but he hadn't felt like packing his papers, so instead he reclined on a little patch of soft ground just off the trail and watched the light shift through the trees overhead.

His thoughts overwhelmingly returned to Lord Riven, though not in any manner that could be repeated in polite company. The man frustrated him and excited him in equal measure, but not in the same way he felt a little flattered by Sir Robert. Nay—just the memory of Lord Riven's breath on his skin but something pulled sharply and twist in his belly. Made him feel sweaty under his clothes all over again and hot between his legs.

Prince Aubrey forced himself to his feet and gathered his belongings. He'd go home by a quicker route—if he was out much later, everyone would start to worry. It was a miracle he'd been allowed to leave the castle grounds at all, best not to abuse the freedom too much.

Best not to let his thoughts stray where they out not.

It was as he cut though a little copse of maple trees that he caught sight of an abandoned campsite. Not totally unusual for this area, and though it was not over-trod by hunters, they still had men and women passing through on their way to the court or moving from one marketplace to another noble house's holdings.

With idle curiosity, Prince Aubrey stepped into the field and eyed the pattern of footsteps left behind by the people and horses who had paused there. The ashes from a small campfire looked relatively fresh, no more than a day old, and the marks in the dirt were distinct. He frowned. They must have been left sometime after the rain the other day.

"What an odd bootprint," he mused to himself, for in fact, the shape of the indentation was unlike anything his hunts master had ever pointed out to him before, shallow across both the toe and heal and squared off like none of the cobblers who supplied the peerage designed their wares.

A rustling sound from the bushes behind him acted as a courtesy to announce his guard's approach and he straightened up as a wiry huntsman slid out of the forest. He whipped off his cap and bowed low at the waist.

"Forgive the intrusion," he said, voice rusty.

Prince Aubrey waved the apology away and resettled his pack on his shoulder. "No need, I was just headed back."

"Very good, sire."

"You can walk with me if you wish."

The man crooked a grin and readjusted his cap. "No need, sire."

Aubrey arrived back at the Keep several hours later, dusty and covered in sweat. The exertion had succeeded in driving all of his thoughts out of his head, however, and he felt comfortably heavy and empty. He turned the cold taps in his bathroom and left them to fill the sunken tub—large enough for two men twice his size and carved from the stone itself—while he puttered around his receiving room, pulling off his boots and unlacing his outerwear. His clothes coated his hands with dirt and sap and he left a trail of dust across the stone floors enough to make the maids sigh to themselves when they came in to make up his bed later.

The prince expected to see Winston when the door slid open but he turned, half undressed in just his pants and bare feet, to find the Lord Riven standing in the doorway, his arms folded across his broad chest.

"Do you ever knock?" the prince asked acerbically and resisted the urge to cover his chest. He was not as well-built as the alpha, more sleek than visibly strong, though there was none of the softness that sometimes padded an omega's natural curves. He had nothing to be ashamed of, though that did not make the situation any more appropriate.

"I desired to speak with you earlier. I couldn't find you."

"I was out."

"So I gathered eventually."

"Your forget yourself, Lord Riven, if you think I come at your beck and call."

If the emphasis Prince Aubrey placed on the alpha's title at all perturbed him, Lord Riven gave nothing away through his expression.

"I do not imagine the King would endorse you going so far afield without an escort."

"Despite what you may think I'm not completely helpless. I am perfectly capable of being careful. Even you cannot argue that the other night was an extreme case. It took all of us by surprise."

The prince kicked his dirty boots under his settee. The top of his laces were undone on his trousers but he dared not draw attention to that face by fussing with them right under Lord Riven's eye.

"You better spit it out," he said. "I grow tired of watching you loom at me like this."

He almost missed it but there—the very corner of Lord Riven's mouth twitched. Perhaps the man had a sense of humor after all. The prince had a sudden sneaking suspicion that the Lord was not at all unaware what sort of effect he had on the omega.

"You missed the competitors today."

"Tradition doesn't actually demand that I attend every single event. Merely that I put in a good show of attending a few."

"They're all here for you, though, your absence was obvious."

"What, all of them, really? Even your sister?"

Lord Riven frowned and shook his head.

The prince huffed and scrubbed his hands though his short hair but even that did not offer any kind of distraction.

"I fear that I see no evidence to support your suspicions," he said.

"Then you won't help me?"

"I did, I snooped into Sir Robert as much as I dare to. I feel as though I've spent every spare minute I've had this week with him."

"Far from a hardship, surely?"

Aubrey stared at him oddly, mouth falling open.

"I prefer my time to be my own, I assure you. But that's not the point. You've given me nothing to believe Sir Bourn was behind the mercenaries who attacked my father. If you wish me to continue this farce you'll have to provide something new."

Lord Riven made a frustrated noise; Aubrey spoke again before he could argue.

"There's no _reason_ for Sir Bourn to plot behind my father's back. Whatever his feelings about, well, about you, they are not connected to my family." The sharp look that crossed the alpha's face cut something under Prince Aubrey's breastbone. It was so raw, for a second, so unguarded and full of a sore and well-rubbed anguish. "He loves my father as a brother, and for his loyalty he is well rewarded. It would do House Bourn no good to strike against Lyle."

When it did not appear as though Lord Riven had anything more to add, the prince stood to leave. Surely the Lord Riven would not follow him if he made his escape to the washroom?

"I would not argue that he feels something like kinship to your father."

"Isn't that exactly what you're suggesting?"

Lord Riven sounded frustrated when he replied, "Well, that was not my meaning, exactly."

"Then what is?"

"What if there were another—to whom Sir Bourn felt an even greater loyalty?"

"Such as?" Prince Aubrey asked, disbelief making his voice rise sharply. He advanced on Lord Riven until only a foot of humid air separated them. He tilted his head to meet his eyes, staring straight up at him, unwavering, demanding.

The alpha's nostrils flared, scenting the air and his pupils dilated. The prince's mouth dropped open on a soundless gasp. In the next breath, Lord Riven bridged the gap and took his mouth in an angry kiss.

He kissed with all of the emotion he so rarely expressed with his face, hot and wet and deep. There was no hesitation before Lord Riven's tongue sought entrance and the prince was only too eager to give it up, parting his lips on a quiet moan and meeting Lord Riven's warm tongue with own. They battled for dominance with their lips in a way that excited him even more than their words had.

Strong hands grabbed him by his hips and pulled his smaller body flush against Lord Riven from chest to belly. Aubrey wrapped his arms around Lord Riven's neck and pressed closer, exalting at the hard press against his hip that proved irrevocably the way he excited the alpha.

Lord Riven worked his mouth until it was raw and bruised and he had no air left in his lungs, and then he pressed forward again, biting at Prince Aubrey's lower lip until he dug his nails into the alpha's skin and shivered.

Those same big hands trailed over his bare skin, stroked teasingly up his spine and flirted with the waist of his pants where it was loose and slipping down against the top of his round ass.

It lit a fire under the prince's skin that he could scarcely describe. Something that made him squirm with heat and pleasure building in his stomach, that made his own cock throb in time with his pulse and his body flush with clean sweat. He wanted to feel Lord Riven press him into his soft bed, bear him down under the man's weight, and run his demanding mouth over every inch of Aubrey's body until it hurt with the same exquisite pain that suffused his lips.

He knew that alphas went into their first rut younger than omega's, some as young as sixteen; their bodies developed more quickly, broadening and gaining muscle and mass before they'd fully left adolescence, spurring their sexual maturation. The season before he'd presented as an omega, Aubrey had spent countless furtive hours in a dark corner of the library reading what literature he could find on mating habits of alphas and omegas—his underdeveloped sex thrilling in equal measures at the illicitness of the research and the reading itself. Books told him how alphas were built to provide sex—seed, implantation, and stamina enough to sate an omega's heat. Their hormones drove them to seek sexual gratification even outside of their peak breeding seasons and even without the presence of an omega in heat.

The prince had been no more surprised by his presentation than anyone else in the court. He had always been fairly even tempered as a child and showed no sign of bulking up by sixteen. His presentation merely made the expectations official.

He knew that one day, probably one day in the next year, he would go into heat. That his hormones would prepare his body for pregnancy, would make him ache to be fucked and knotted and filled in ways only an alpha could fill him. But that had always seemed so alien to Prince Aubrey—something that would happen to him without his consent, his body acting out uncontrollably against his mind's control.

An alpha would crave this kind of carnal contact; he had never realized just how much he too would crave it outside of his own mating drive.

"Please," he whispered into the alpha's skin.

Lord Riven tore his mouth away and took a step back. Almost at once, Prince Aubrey felt cold all over. His heart beat a painful rhythm against his breastbone and he couldn't seem to catch his breath. The alpha stumbled away from him, wordless and wide-eyed, his hair disheveled and his mouth red and wet—wrecked. Prince Aubrey realized with an electric thrill that _he_ had done that, he had descended such destruction on Lord Riven's composure.

He blinked when the other man turned on his heel and practically fled the room, his surcoat swirling around his legs.

Prince Aubrey touched his mouth with shaking fingers and sagged back onto the settee. It was some time before he gathered his wits and then it was only when the sound of water overflowing his considerable tub in the next room. He ended up shouting for a maid, which successfully squashed any lingering desire tenting his pants.

#

Sir Elsa Riven quite literally stumbled over her brother in the small suite they had been assigned. She stopped, surprised, for she had not expected to see him again before dinner. The Lord Riven had said something earlier about a meeting, and she had inferred that he meant with one of the many spies he thought she knew nothing about. Dierik trusted her with his unspoken secrets, he very rarely worked to hide anything from her, but she knew that he assumed she had little interest nor paid much attention to his more complicated schemes.

Elsa saw no value in ignoring the affairs of her own House—that way led to death and fire, as they had both sorely learned.

"What are you doing skulking around?"

Dierik ignored both her question and her entrance; he remained staring at a blank stone wall, a glass of port forgotten in his left hand.

Elsa took the glass from him and saw that it was half drunk. She shrugged and downed the rest of it in one gulp. They said port was good for the constitution, didn't they? This at last prompted a response from Riven—some brotherly instinct making him frown at her by rote and protest the theft.

"I thought you were going to be out," Elsa reminded him.

Dierik grunted and took his glass back.

Disinclined to pick a fight, Elsa tidied up his surcoat where he'd dropped it in an uncharacteristically thoughtless fashion. A faint whiff of something spicy and expensive tickled her nose. She could not have said who the cologne belonged to, let along identified it as the Crown Prince's after their brief introduction, but the scent was distinct enough from her brother's penchant for leather and steel that it gave her pause. Her reaction caught her brother's attention and he surged to his feet, ripping the garment from her hands and stomping into his room.

"It is nothing," he protested though she hadn't said a word.

"Nothing means acting like a brat?"

"Don't." Dierik's hands crumpled the jacket and he pressed his lips together. He was hiding something from her, something more than just his spies and his reasons for following her to the fête at the last minute where before he'd been the picture of indifference.

"I don't have time for this. Lady threw a shoe and I have to see this Dupuis fellow for the farrier," Elsa said. She'd come upstairs for a couple coins to pay the man and to see if the castle staff had finished washing her horse's silk leg wraps.

Her brother nodded, his eyes fixed away from her.

"Are you..." she trailed off and watched the way Dierik's hand strayed to his mouth, contemplative.

The way his eyes followed the Crown Prince with startling devotion had not entirely escaped Sir Elsa's notice. She wondered if the little omega smelled like the surcoat in Riven's hands. "If something were the matter, you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

"It is nothing," he repeated.

#

That night at dinner, Aubrey found himself seated once more next to Sir Robert—though this time he felt his bearer's thoughtful look when he sat down. Lord Riven was noticeably absent. His sister had moved up the table, however, putting her within speaking distance of the prince.

He did not have much opportunity to do more than exchange pleasantries with her before Sir Robert demanded his attention.

"I could not help but notice your absence this morning."

Prince Aubrey sipped his whine with a _hmm_.

"You've had your fill of archery I take it," Sir Robert said with a quiet laugh.

"Am I that transparent?"

"I'm not sure transparent is the word I would choose."

The alpha showed little interest in the food being set down in front of him, his body angled towards the prince in a clear gesture to the other members of the peerage seated at the long table. He expected the prince's attention and he would not welcome any interruptions. Prince Aubrey caught Sir Elsa watching them closely from her seat and quirked his eyebrow at her. He had to assume that she was in on her brother's machinations at least in part.

"Don't tell me you've tired of my company already."

Sir Robert's words interrupted the prince's wandering thoughts.

"No, of course not. I'm just a little tired."

"Oh? But not from watching archery."

"No," Prince Aubrey laughed. "I took a long walk. Do you enjoy hiking, Sir Robert? I'm very partial to it myself, mostly as way of escaping my own thoughts."

Sir Robert smirked and leaned a fraction of an inch too close for propriety's sake. "Challenge the body, free the mind—something like that?"

The prince swallowed and averted his eyes.

"Yes, I suppose that's what I meant."

"I understand completely. I too am quite fond of various...exertions."

The tone and weight of his words against the side of Aubrey's face made him blush. When he looked up again, he could see quite clearly that Sir Elsa had caught their conversation as well has his reaction.

#

Very early the next morning, while the sky hung heavy with night's navy blue and the last few straggling stars winked in and out of sight, the Hon. Winston woke the prince from a hot, confusing sleep and led him out to the steeplechase course.

"Damn it, Dupes, what could be so important we have to be awake at this ungodly hour?" Aubrey grumbled and pulled his chamlys tighter around his body. A distinct chill suffused the air still and the grass bent heavy with dew under their boots.

"It's not that early," Winston argued.

To be fair, the sky had begun to lighten considerably since they stepped outside the Keep. Rosy light crept across the horizon even as they tromped across the green.

"I told old man Harris I'd do another walk through before breakfast this morning."

"Yes, but that does not answer why you needed _me_ for this."

The Hon. Winston chucked his shoulder against the prince's and made a ridiculous face at him. "Haven't seen much hide nor hair of you the last couple days. Wouldn't want to be accused that I was taking my position for granted."

The prince rolled his eyes. "So, you are going to count this as attending me now? How very convenient for you." But he laughed as he said the words and the two of them jostled their way to the first set of fences, at which point Winston grew serious again.

He had a keen eye for cross-country design. Could calculate distances and strides just by studying the approaches and landings. It was too bad, really, that the fête only came around every three years. There were not nearly enough riding competitions in Lyle to make full use of Winston's talents. Aubrey could admit that his manservant was mostly wasted as, well, his manservant.

Watching his friend stride between the trimmed brushes and logs, he imagined Winston inheriting his family's horseland out west. He'd be happier than a pig in shit, there was no doubt about that, and their stock of equines would only benefit from Winston's careful attention to bloodlines and training. It was unfortunate that his eldest brother, set to inherit the estate upon their father's death, did not have the same interest in the family heritage.

Winston made a curious nose and squatted down to examine something on the ground.

"What is it?"

"Seems we weren't the first ones out here."

"What? Someone was up even earlier?"

"Couple someones by the tracks. Curious shoes—heavier than you'd expect on a racing mount."

The sky was just bright enough now so that the prince was able to pick out the tracks his friend indicated. Indeed there were several sets of hoof prints overlapping one another but all going in the same direction: they had passed across the track and followed the dirt for a couple paces before—

Winston followed the hoof prints, with the prince trailing after him, until they disappeared into the woods again a quarter of a mile from the third combination.

"No one's supposed to ride the course before the even," Winston mused, scratching at his beard.

"There's no way to know who it was though. Not just from a shoe. Not even for you."

The Hon. Winston acquiesced the truth of this with a slow nod.

"The boot prints are rather odd though."

"What?" Prince Aubrey stared hard at the patch of mud his manservant pointed out and felt a strange thrill at the shape he saw there—an oddly square boot to match the tracks he'd seen at the campsite the day before.

"But you're right. Nothing to be done about it now. Best hurry if we don't want to be late for breakfast."

Winston hurried them through the next four fences but everything looked well situated and secure. They cut through a copse of trees and berry brambles to get back to the Keep as the rooster and crows started up a racket along the walls.

They ate and dressed and Prince Aubrey took his place in the stands with the dukes before the cross-country officials had even taken to the green. He fidgeted through the reading of rules and the first ten horses.

The competitors were released in groups of five at intervals of fifteen minutes. They would be scored on speed as well as proficiency, and tomorrow they would set off on a five day race to the edge of House Lyle's borders and back. Altogether, the steeplechase was intended to test horse and rider's skill, agility, and stamina.

Winston appeared as the third bell rang and the next set of riders took off. He moved the smallest Gagner from her seat next to the prince and settled her on his lap with a forlorn sigh. The prince smiled at him and pinched his side, welcome for the distraction.

"Gess would sail around this course like it was a rose garden," his manservant said mournfully.

Aubrey made a conciliatory noise and exchanged a cross-eyed look with little Lucy Gagner as she flopped theatrically across Winston's shoulder.

Before long it grew too hot to sit out in the sun watching horses. Winston kept eyeing the east road where the first set of riders should begin appearing in the next hour or so. The prince took a sleeping Lucy out of his hands and carried her out of the stands. A nurse appeared to whisk her away to a nursery, and Aubrey stretched out his cramped muscles.

He yelped when someone grabbed his hip and hustled him around behind one of the competitor's tents. He relaxed when he saw that the same grip belonged to Lord Riven and tensed again in the next second when the alpha pressed them tightly together.

"Sir Robert just took the field," Lord Riven said in a dark voice.

Aubrey nodded his head, trying to ignore the press of his cock in his pants, clearly interested in Lord Riven's persistent invasion of his personal space.

"We should take this opportunity—"

"Yes?" Prince Aubrey asked, wincing at the eagerness he could hear in his tone. It was ridiculous, one kiss and he felt like he was gagging for another. It was pathetic really.

But rather than kiss him again or rub their bodies together in some new delicious way, Lord Riven grabbed the prince's hand and led him down a short row of tents to a large red one: Sir Robert's. Of course.

Lord Riven showed no hesitation once they were safely ensconced behind the drapes to begin rifling through Sir Robert's personal effects. When the prince remained awkwardly next to the tent flap he made an impatient noise in the pack of his throat and gestured sharply at the camp desk set up on the far side of the space.

"Check his latest correspondence. We won't have a better chance than this."

"There's more than one Bourn at the fête you know."

"Yes, but I've already thoroughly vetted the cousins. Joffrey's hiding an alcohol problem well enough but he's too stupid to organize a mercenary contract with Dunland. The other two are equally clean and even more boring than Robert."

Aubrey huffed his annoyance but dutifully sifted through the handful of pages on the desk. They consisted of bills mostly, a note about competition times, a note of encouragement from his mother and—the prince's heart picked up speed as he read the last letter in the pile. It was, unmistakably, a love letter of sorts. But more than that, it—

The correspondence fluttered to the ground like a dead bird falling suddenly from flight. It caught Lord Riven's attention.

"Have you found—!"

He scooped up the letters, tossing the dull ones aside until his eyes settled on the note which had so disquieted the prince. He read, silent and swift, his mouth moving soundlessly around the shape of the words. When he had finished he didn't move except for his fingers tightening around the paper, the only sign that the words had effected him. But why would they?

Prince Aubrey pressed his lip together and fled the tent. Lord Riven followed soundlessly. He grabbed the prince's elbow and tried to curtail his flight.

"Let go!" Prince Aubrey struggled against his hands. He had no stomach for anymore espionage. Surely there was never anything good to learn from snooping, just as the eavesdropper never heard anything kind.

"Your grace."

"Leave me," he cried and sagged against Lord Riven's chest. They were hidden well enough by the tightly packed tents, abandoned now that all of the alphas were on the steeplechase course. With a sharp curl of embarrassment he realized his eyes were wet and hot. He tried to hide his face against his shoulder but Lord Riven did not seem interested in forcing his gaze.

"Then you..."

"What?" Prince Aubrey asked.

"Then you did expect a proposal?"

"What?" He jerked back far enough to see Lord Riven's face but it told him nothing. "No. I mean, possibly, but that is not to say that I intended to..."

"What?"

The prince licked chapped lips and watched Lord Riven breathe. The alpha's chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm under his hands. He didn't let himself examine the impulse, just leaned up on his toes and bridged their mouths together. Lord Riven's hands cupped his face, an involuntary motion, and they were kissing again, as deeply as before if less violently. Prince Aubrey clutched at the man's surcoat, twisting the fabric between his fingers as he stroked his tongue against Riven's teeth. The alpha opened to him, twining their tongues together with a quiet sound.

The taste drove every thought of Sir Robert straight out of his head. Aubrey wallowed in the sensation, thoughtless and greedy as they kissed and kissed. Until Lord Riven pulled back, taking his mouth repeatedly in these sort of sweet sipping kisses that made the prince feel simultaneously cherished and aroused in equal measure.

He pressed his aching cock against Lord Riven's muscular thighs and made a whining noise that, under any other circumstance, he would have been ashamed by.

"We shouldn't," Lord Riven pulled back, whispered in snatches even as he kept kissing the prince. "We shouldn't, not here—not, not at all." And his fingers scraped though the short hairs at the base of Aubrey's neck, tilted his head back so that the alpha could kiss him again, deeper.

Prince Aubrey drew away this time when a noise from the far off crowd caught his attention. They untangled themselves reluctantly.

The prince's chest felt heavy, like he might crack in two under a stiff breeze, caught somewhere between elation and wretchedness. The words from Sir Robert's correspondence reasserted themselves at the forefront of his thoughts like a slap:

_—I would be more than pleased to remain yours in body if not in soul should you succeed in securing his highness's hand in marriage. You need not even ask, my love. I have always been partial to the royal estate at Dungeoness on the Sea. It would make a fine apartment: secluded, remote, and somewhat abandoned by the Lyle's. His highness need never even have to know..._

__

Whatever else his intentions may have been, Sir Robert most assuredly already possessed a love—one who did not mind playing the part of his mister or mistress should he marry another. That knowledge settled like a lump of cold lead in the prince's stomach.

He did not love Sir Robert by any stretch, and indeed, if the alpha had proposed he was not at all certain he would have accepted such an offer even before discovering this new thread in the web. He could not imagine being married. But he had been flattered by the other man's attention, by the genuine interest Sir Robert had seemed to express about the his thoughts and hobbies. To learn that it was all just a ploy, a way to secure his affections for a marriage, for his _estates_ —it was enough to make the bile rise up in the prince's throat all over again.

Lord Riven's added presence only sent Aubrey's feelings fluttering around in confusion as he struggled to compose himself.

"I hope you are quite satisfied," he said.

Lord Riven started and looked at him sharply.

"About Sir Robert's supposed involvement with the men who attacked my father. I hope you're satisfied of his innocence now."

The alpha inclined his head in resignation.

"Then my part is discharged. If you wish to accuse House Bourn of some misdoing, you will have to do it yourself."

"I understand."

"Good." Prince Aubrey straightened his clothes and looked anywhere but at the Lord Riven. "Good. I must—the riders will be returning soon."

Princes did not run away. They moved swiftly and with purpose. Aubrey's purpose was clear in his head now. He would sit and smile for the competitors paraded before him; he would be stone until the fête concluded; life would go on as it had before too many alphas decided to ruffle his status quo with their compliments and their—their _lips_.

## **CHAPTER SEVEN**

### **_The Knife in the Dark_**

###

The prince woke the next morning with an uncharacteristic headache. It did not keep him from dressing or sitting serenely in attendance as the riders were seen off for the marathon. When the last horse disappeared over the horizon, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief—there would be four or five blessed days free from any social obligations, small talk, feasts, or alphas demanding his attention.

He retired to his room and slipped out of his formal clothes. That early in the morning, he did not mean to fall asleep, but sometime between taking off his shoes and stretching out across his linens, his eyes closed and sleep took him.

Later, he chose to skip dinner with the nobles who remained in residence at the Keep—many members of the peerage had traveled ahead of the riders competing in the fête so as to watch their progress as well as take a breather from rubbing elbows so closely in House Lyle's accommodations.

The second day passed in a similar fashion. The prince woke out of spirits, and no amount of cheering from the Hon. Winston managed to put much of a smile on his face. He ate very little and wandered between his quarters and the family library without ever picking up a book. Aubrey couldn't seem to marshall his spirits or his focus to any suitable degree, which only served to put him even further out of sorts. He did not believe that the revelation as to Sir Robert's intentions should affect him so profoundly. He did _not_ love the alpha. So, why did his betrayal cause his stomach to sit sore in his gut?

If anyone else noticed the low turn of his mood, they were kind enough to keep their comments about it to themselves.

All except for the Lord Riven, apparently, who appeared at the prince's door late on the second day. He knocked for once, which was shocking enough that Aubrey allowed him entrance before he could think better of it.

"Speak your peace," he said sharply, in no mood for the Lord Riven's censure or paranoia.

Rather than speaking, Riven's dark eyes followed him as Aubrey paced around the room. He took the chair Winston had sat in before, moved back to its position next to the fireplace, spread his fingers against the armrests and leaned his head against the stiff padding. His eyes stirred the frustration Aubrey felt with himself.

"Sir Robert would not have made a very good husband," he said after a long silence.

There were two reactions the prince could made to that: the first being an angry one.

Instead, he laughed a little and shook his head, the fight draining out of his body all at once.

"No, he wouldn't have."

"He's charming, certainly," Lord Riven said with a tense mouth, like the words were being drawn out of him against his will. The prince looked at him closer and realized that he was _uncomfortable_. "And he is not without his supporters, but the charm wears thin in the face of actual negotiation. And he cheated Baron Anshelm out of the best pups in his bitch's last litter. Or so I've been told. It's left that particular relationship rather frosty."

"So you've been told."

"Elsa—that is, my sister—is fond of a little bird hunting. She heard from Anshelm's youngest."

"Of course. And you think he would, what, ruin my affairs of state?"

"Perhaps not ruin. I only meant to say—you will do better."

"Of course I will," Aubrey said quietly. "I am the Crown Prince of Wescott and Lyle. There are few alphas who would not vie for my attention. You know, I think that's the worst of it—so many of them, they'd do anything for my hand. And I don't know any of them— _really_ know them."

Lord Riven inclined his head in mute agreement.

"There is always your friend. Baron Dupuis' son," Riven said haltingly.

Prince Aubrey's barked a laugh, genuine this time, loud enough that it startled both of them.

"Winston? You think I should marry Winston? How absurd."

"You're very close—"

"He's my best friend, more like a brother than a manservant. But he's a beta."

"It would be somewhat unconventional, I grant you, but not without precedent. And he would be loyal. You could make the High Court accept anything if you put your mind to it."

"You express a great deal of faith in me—in someone you don't know."

At his words, Lord Riven's head came up sharply.

"It's been a long time, but I'd hardly say I don't know you."

"What?"

"You don't—do you mean to imply that we—that you don't remember me?"

"I'm sorry? But I don't."

The ground shifted beneath the prince's feet. He felt unsure in the face of Lord Riven's surprise.

"You were thirteen, I think, the last time I visited Lyle. But truth be told I hardly saw you then. Before that though, I—we made the trip for your tenth birthday celebration. I gave you a starfish I'd caught on the shore of the North Sea. Don't you remember?"

Memory assaulted Prince Aubrey like a flash of lightning. He did recall the gift. It had sat on his desk for years as a paperweight. Until one hot summer day, roughhousing with Winston, the creature's desecrated skeleton had been knocked to the floor. It broke into three pieces, all dust, and later that day a maid had come in to clean it up. Swept the evidence away with her broom until he'd forgotten about it.

Here and now, Lord Riven watched him with a sharp expression, searching his face for any indication that—

"I do, I remember the starfish. I forgot who gave it to me," he admitted, because as hard as Aubrey tried, he could not put a younger face to Lord Riven, nor even a space where memory of him should be. The Lord Riven seemed to read this in the regretful slant of his mouth. He nodded sharply and stood.

"Forgive me for taking up so much of your time," he murmured.

Prince Aubrey could—should let him leave, their business thus concluded. Something made him demand, "Is that it then? You have nothing more to say about it?"

"You don't remember."

The prince swallowed and raised his chin, a clear challenge. "Remind me."

"Is that what you want?" Lord Riven stepped into his personal space, all bulk and heat and the rustle of maille under the smell of leather and polished steel.

He didn't know what he wanted. He wanted Lord Riven to kiss him again, to press their bodies together. There was no memory of Sir Robert to erase, his betrayal had already fled the prince's thoughts. The whole world narrowed down to Lord Riven and the tension that crackled to life between them.

They had already crossed a line they should not have, for propriety's sake, crossed. He was a prince, and in that he had some leeway about what sort of personal liberties he could take. To engage in carnal relations—it should have shocked the prince to his very core that the idea even crossed his mind, but he could not stop imagining. His breath came short and swift as the blood rose up in him, made his body tight and hot and slick with arousal.

"When you were seven, you fell from your pony and I helped you up, took you back to your nursery and patched your skinned knee. You didn't cry, you just looked at me, watched me very calmly like you understood..."

"What?"

"Life hurts sometimes, inevitably, but it's not worth weeping over. Especially not when someone comes along to help you."

Aubrey smirked and tilted his head. "You make me sound very mature and wise for a seven year old."

"Do you think I'm lying?"

"Perhaps, exaggerating. Just a little bit."

"Why would I—"

The prince cupped the alpha's shoulder and pulled him closer.

"I mustn't," Lord Riven said breathlessly against his mouth, their lips just brushing together.

"Yes, you should. I want it."

"No—not from—" Lord Riven sharply pulled them apart. "I am not a creature of base desire," he said. His voice cracked. "I cannot, I will not. Forgive me, your grace."

He left before Prince Aubrey could detain him further, the door his bedroom swinging shut loud enough to announce it to the rest of the wing.

The prince collapsed on his chaise lounge and flung one hand across his eyes. He briefly considered unlacing his trousers right there and stroking himself off just to relieve the pressure, but Lord Riven's discomposure left a sour taste in his mouth.

Strange, it seemed, how the Lord Riven so easily resisted even when he threw himself at the other man. To anyone else, such a connection had to look advantageous. But more so to Riven, surely? Especially when he so desperately sought the ear of the King in holding off House Bourn, enough to invent his wild treasonous suppositions.

"Strange, indeed," Aubrey muttered and rolled onto his belly. He buried his face in the stiff, embroidered pillow under his head and closed his eyes.

A little time passed. The prince did not precisely fall asleep, though he was close to it when his door swung open again and the Lord Riven appeared, his face red from exertion and a grim slant to his mouth.

He crossed the sitting room in three long strides and loomed over the prince—who rolled over onto his back—one knee on the settee next to his hip and a hand braced against the arm above Aubrey's head.

"I lied," he said and kissed the prince fiercely, mouth hard and angry. The prince arched up into his body and shivered at the resulting growl. Lord Riven wrapped one arm around the prince's waist and pulled their lower bodies flush together, thrusting his solid thigh between the prince's sprawled legs.

"I must—" Lord Riven bit into his bottom lip, making it sting and trailed little biting kisses down his neck, punctuating them with words the prince was too incoherent to bother listening to.

"The bed," Prince Aubrey demanded. "Take me to the bed."

"Yes."

The omega rejoiced in the feeling of strong arms hoisting him off the settee and hauling him over to his bed. Lord Riven deposited him in the down comforters in an ungainly sprawl, his eyes hot along the length of the prince's body.

Aubrey wasted no time tackling his laces and flinging off his private clothes until he lay bare under the other man's gaze. That alone was enough to set his skin ablaze, adrenaline and arousal pumping through his blood in equal measure. His cock rose long and flushed from its nest of dark blond curls. A pearl of liquid shivered at the tip.

The prince met Lord Riven's dark eyes and licked his lips.

"Disrobe, my lord," he rumbled in a voice that did not seem to be his own. He had never felt desire like this, like it would drive him mad if he did not satisfy it. And none would satisfy it as Lord Riven would, of that Prince Aubrey had no doubt.

The alpha's clothes took considerably more work than his own but he was satisfied to lie where he was and watch the show. His garments came away in heavy layers until finally Lord Riven stood before him, all pale skin and war wrought muscles and a terrible tracery of scars that ran down his left side and around his hip.

He climbed up onto the bed without invitation and pressed Prince Aubrey flat beneath him, making a space for himself between the omega's thighs. Lord Riven held onto him with greedy hands and a demanding mouth that he used to taste the prince's skin.

Aubrey had difficulty keeping track of all the places their bodies met. It felt as though the Lord Riven intended to devour him whole, between clenched fingers and desperate sucking kisses that raised little red marks in his skin to note the Lord's passing.

He raked his nails down Lord Riven's back and exalted at the shiver it produced. The alpha growled and pressed him harder into the bed. Their tongues battled between their mouths.

Feeling bold, the prince raised his hips and wrapped his legs around the alpha's hips in a clear demand for something more. Sweaty skin slid together, delicious friction for both their cocks as Riven thrust into the prince's hip, but it wasn't enough. He would not be satisfied with just kisses and the two of them spilling across one another's skin.

Aubrey tore his mouth away and gasped, "I want..."

"Anything." Lord Riven sucked another mark into the delicate skin behind his ear and pressed their foreheads together. He met the prince's eyes with pupils blown wide from arousal, deep and bottomless.

Lord Riven ran one of his hands through the prince's hair, rubbing the short strands between his fingers and tipping his chin back to give him more room to work.

Aubrey reached between their bodies and got his hand around Lord Riven's erect member. It was long and thick between his fingers—hard and hot, thicker in girth than his own and flushed around the root. It was an alpha's cock, no two words about it. That knowledge sent a thrill shivering through the prince's system. He wanted it inside.

Above him, Lord Riven twitched and moaned into his shoulder, thrusting a little into his hand before he stilled his body. Tension rolled off him in waves.

"I want this," Prince Aubrey said and squeezed. He pressed a sloppy kiss into Lord Riven's slack mouth and wiggled his hips. There was an ache inside him that only one thing would satisfy—an ache like nothing he'd ever felt before.

The prince gave a brief thought to his heat. Considered the evidence, whether he might have peaked so suddenly and without anyone—least of all himself—noticing until this very moment, until he had an alpha blanketing him, trembling in his hands. Heat was always described as a desperate act, something wild and completely unstoppable. Something that happened outside any sort of rational thought to sense or reason.

He felt desperate but not without reason. The prince considered whether he could stop—he—yes, he could stop. He pulled his hand away from the Lord Riven's straining cock and buried his fingers in the bed linens. Aubrey found a place in himself then that knew he could say no. Could pull away and end the encounter. He did not doubt for a second that should he do so, Lord Riven would respect his decision; it was apparent in every straining line of his body as he held off simply taking what the prince had already put on offer.

Satisfied with his own self-evaluation the prince squeezed his knees around the alpha's hips.

He could say no. He was not so ruled by his biology as to be a slave to it. But he wanted this.

He wanted it for himself.

"My—my lord," Riven said, stumbling over his words, the pain in his voice clear.

Prince Aubrey wrapped his arms around Riven's neck and raised his mouth to whisper directly into his ear, "I want you inside me. I order you."

Lord Riven growled and sat up, taking the prince with him. He hoisted the omega onto his thighs, his hands squeezing tight on his ass, rubbing their cocks together before he strained, arms flexing as he raised Prince Aubrey a couple inches higher. His cock slid under the omega's balls and pressed at his tight entrance.

Prince Aubrey had never been touched there by another, but he was not wholly unfamiliar with the pleasures of his own ass. He pulled and arched his body to help Lord Riven with the position, his hips spread wide and open. Omega slick smeared across the alpha's cockhead as he thrust up in little shallow pushes.

"Do it," the prince demanded. "Come on, don't tease me or I'll—"

Lord Riven jerked him down by his ass and thrust up at the same time, breaching him in one sharp movement. It made Prince Aubrey cry out and toss his head back. It hurt, despite how wet he was with his own slick, it ached in an unfamiliar way. Lord Riven did not stop but he was not cruel, his forehead creased with concentration as he worked his cock deeper into the prince's body by degrees.

The omega shook in the other man's hands, fresh sweat springing out across his skin as he fought to find a place of serenity, to relax, to ease into the feeling of being spit open.

It seemed to last an eternity, but the Lord Riven's cock ended eventually and he stilled, seated up to the slight swell at the base. He ran his hands up and down the prince's back, though whether he intended the motion to gentle the prince or himself was anyone's guess.

The prince gasped for breath, body shivering around the hardness inside him until the pain subsided enough to make him restless.

He hitched himself up and down in small movements that had Lord Riven's hands tightening on his skin, digging in.

"Move," he demanded.

"I'll hurt you."

"You won't. I swear you won't, but I'll hurt _you_ if you. don't. move," the prince said through gritted teeth

Lord Riven's cock moved across something deep inside him that lit all his nerves on fire. Aubrey's vision whited out a little as he moaned and shook. His cock blurted precome onto his belly. Everywhere he was slick and wet and slippery and he needed _more_. He made impatient noises and bounced up and down on the alpha's cock, greedy to feel that same pleasure again.

At first it seemed that Riven struggled to keep up with his enthusiastic response, but the alpha was not to be left behind. His hands clutched tightly at the prince's hips and forced him still as the alpha shifted onto this toes, granting him enough leverage to thrust up into Aubrey's willing body.

The man's cock moved through his slick channel with increasing ease as the pleasure overtook the discomfort and his body relaxed. It felt like Lord Riven was carving out a place for himself inside Aubrey's body, a perfect, gloved fit. He cried out as the alpha nailed that wonderful, sweet spot inside of him again.

Pleasure crackled through him, almost too much, until all he could do was hang on to tight, broad shoulders and clench around the hot iron in his ass.

"Oh, fuck," he moaned, clutching at his own hair in desperation.

Lord Riven pulled his body even closer; Aubrey's cock rubbed delicious shivers of pleasure between their taut bellies as the Lord Riven forced him back down into the bed, bearing into him in a thrust he could swear he felt in the back of his throat. The alpha folded up his legs, hooked his shaky knees over his arms, and arched over his body—his hips never losing their implacable rhythm.

From a technical position, the prince knew what came next. He'd read about this in his books along with all of the information on heats. This was the critical moment.

He should tell Lord Riven to pull out—he _should_. But they were so far past proper already and he didn't want to. He felt selfish, and it thrilled him.

"Your highness," the alpha whispered brokenly into his skin, over and over like a mantra until the words blurred together and lost their meaning.

"Aubrey," the prince gasped. "Please, call me—"

"Aubrey!"

The prince cupped the alpha's sweating face close to his own and kissed him, angled his hips and pressed up harder where he could feel the beginnings of the alpha's knot.

Making a noise somewhere between a sob and a growl, Lord Riven pressed that extra couple of inches into the prince's wet ass, grinding them flush together.

The prince whined high in the back of his throat and felt his ass flutter around the hard weight as the alpha's knot began to swell inside him, pressing against his soft inner walls. Above him, Lord Riven gasped and jerked as his orgasm overtook him, his knot locking their bodies together and his cock pumping hot come into the prince's body.

"Oh, god," the prince said, his lungs struggling to take in enough air. "Oh, god, I can feel you."

"I know. Shh, I know. I can feel you too. You're so..."

Aubrey craned his neck up to kiss the words out of Lord Riven's mouth. He was afraid of what the other man would see in his face. It had to be painfully open. Vulnerable. The alpha's cock shifted as they resettled, pressing against the spot in his ass that made his cock jump. It reminded Aubrey that he had yet to come himself. He reached one hand between them and stroked himself in short, almost brutal pulls that had him spilling a minute later. He clenched down hard around Lord Riven's cock as he came; the movement made him aware all over again of the way the alpha's cock kept twitching, spilling dribbles of come deep inside him.

An alpha's orgasm could last for several minutes depending on the strength of the knot. Prince Aubrey felt almost uncomfortably full with it, his ass stretched tight around the man's hard knot and the skin over his lower belly tight.

Aubrey gentled himself through his own orgasm, rubbing his fingers against his sensitive head until it was too much, trailing his hand up and down his skin. The prince stretched one arm over his head and pressed the other against his belly above where the were joined inside him. It made the nerves in his body sing a little.

He felt—sleepy and well fucked. Possessed. And possessive of the way Lord Riven's shoulders sagged and his body slumped against him. The alpha was heavy but Aubrey luxuriated in the helpless weight, the implicit trust.

It wasn't a stretch to say they'd be tied together for awhile yet. The prince had never been knotted before but the books had been clear that a tie as strong as this one would not let go quickly.

Prince Aubrey resettled his head in his pillows and wrapped his arms around Lord Riven's bulk. He wasn't cold at all with the alpha blanketing him.

#

_It hurt, he'd been so happy a moment ago but then he'd fallen and now it hurt. A serious-faced boy found him, held out his hand and helped him up, smoothed cold cream over the scrape and tried to crack a joke, to distract him from the pain. The other boy wasn't very good at it, but the princeling laughed anyway._

_He decided they should be friends and grabbed the boy's hand when he was done, pulled him back outside to finish playing with him. _

_It was a beautiful day. Nurse had been worried about freckles but he'd given her the slip and his new friend didn't seem concerned about his nose burning. He grinned crookedly and said his name was D—something with a D, the prince found it difficult to wrap his mouth around the narrow vowel sounds. He didn't mind helping the prince into Cook's apple tree and climbing up after him—_

Someone moved against him in the dark. Prince Aubrey startled, conditioned to sleeping alone. Only the hand on his chest kept him from leaping out of the bed altogether.

"Shh," Lord Riven whispered into his ear.

The prince froze and realized that they were both naked but no longer tied together. He felt tacky from dried sweat and—other fluids.

"What—"

"Stay here."

"No, wait, what is going on?"

"I heard something. Stay here."

The Lord Riven climbed out of the bed; the shadows threw his naked body into stark relief. He had dressed and left the bedroom while Prince Aubrey was still trying to wipe the fuzz out of his eyes and coordinate his limbs. The edges of a dream clung to his thoughts, making it difficult to separate the shadows on his bed from memory.

As the prince stumbled free of his sheets and into a pair of pants, he heard a shout from the hall and the sound of a fight breaking out. He cursed under his breath and tightened his laces, threw on the nearest shirt to hand and jerked open his wardrobe.

He was not a soldier, but he was not helpless either.

A padded doublet cut in the fashion of a beta's went over his untucked dress shirt. He grabbed a simple knight's sword in its scabbard—a gift from Winston—and ducked out of his room after Lord Riven.

He tripped over one robed body lying just past his door and saw the Lord Riven struggling with a second figure further down the hall. A shout made him turn. He brought up his sheathed sword just in time to deflect a blow from yet another assailant. The prince turned the attack and slammed the man into the stone wall. He followed the motion up with an elbow to his face until the body went lax under his hands and fell to the ground at his feet.

More shouting broke out as the members of staff woke up to face the attack. Somewhere below them the inner doors to the royal wing banged on their hinges and Prince Aubrey could hear the distant clatter of armored feet ascending the stairs—the King's Guard had been alerted.

Lord Riven shouted his name. Aubrey drew his sword and parried his next attacker. The residence halls in the middle of the night was hardly a prime location for a sword fight but he held his own well enough by the light of the moon glinting off steel. Something hot bit into his left arm. Prince Aubrey turned into the weakness and brought his fist into his attacker's face.

Lord Riven reached him, breathing hard and covered in sweat.

"I told you to stay in your room."

"You really don't know me if you think I would just wait there to be kidnapped again—or worse! Twice now these mercenaries have dared to penetrate our most sacred borders—do you think I will sit idly by and let them succeed now where they failed before?"

Lord Riven huffed and jerked the prince down the hall by his stinging arm. "No, I suppose I don't."

"Shit, don't—" he pulled his arm away. "My father."

"Hurry."

The two of them raced through the hall. Prince Aubrey directed Lord Riven at the branch in the hall towards the royal chamber. There were more assassins blocking their path but the King's Guard had arrived from the opposite direction and begun cutting a swath through the attackers. Boxed in, it seemed the mercenaries sensed the turn in their fates and fought all the harder for it.

Prince Aubrey feared what they would find by the time they reached the King's chambers.

A primal roar split the air over the clash of steel and it was as though the whole hall paused, frozen in fear at that sound. Prince Aubrey took advantage of the distraction and slipped between two betas and burst through his parents' door, his sword bloodied and drawn and his lip hot from where someone had gotten in a lucky punch.

He gasped at the tableau and almost fell when Lord Riven crashed into him.

"What—"

A tall man had his back to the door, his arms wrapped around someone else, but over his shoulder, Aubrey saw his father's face twist into something fierce and thick with rage.

The prince didn't think, he shrugged out of Lord Riven's hands and crossed the distance on silent feet and brought the butt of his sword down on the attacker's head. His hostage slithered out of his slack arms and Aubrey stepped back just far enough to let the robed figure fall at his feet.

The King lurched into action, gathering up Sir James in his arms with a wordless cry.

Lord Riven rolled the assassin over onto his back and flinched. There was something familiar about the features but Aubrey could not put a name to them.

"Are you all right?" he demanded, stepping over the body and wrapping his arm around his bearer. He held his breath until Sir James laughed a watery laugh and nodded, turning to enfold Aubrey in his arms.

Lord Riven slipped out of the room sometime before Captain LaRoux stormed through the door, calling for the King.

## **CHAPTER EIGHT**

### **_A Promise _**

###

The Tri-fête ended somewhat unceremoniously after that. The riders returned two days later to find that the rest of the event had been permanently postponed for the year.

Prince Aubrey could not say he was saddened to hear his father's decree. He'd had enough of strangers underfoot for one summer.

He watched the alphas pack up their tents from one of the Keep's upper walls. He had an apple in his pocket stolen from the kitchen and his journal tucked under his arm. He made no move just then to lay down the specifics of the route the men from Dunland had taken to reach Lyle.

The sun shone hot but he felt cool in the shade cast by the battlements.

A blue and brown fluttering pennant caught his attention as a squire pulled it down.

Prince Aubrey bit his lip, leapt to his feet, and raced downstairs.

It seemed like there were guards posted at every doorway now, but he supposed LaRoux couldn't be too careful, even if they had finally captured the ringleader—none other than his uncle, the last Duke Briere, presumed dead these nine years. Pretty spry and vengeful for a dead guy.

Aubrey was not as yet privy to the whole story but as he understood it Briere had returned to murder the Prince Consort first in an effort to hurt his brother, the King, and steal the throne second, with the help of Lord Bourn—a man who had been the friend to _both_ King and Duke when they were children.

Sir James' face had taken on a pinched expression when Aubrey asked after his uncle's personal vendetta against his bearer and refused to say any more.

He felt sure that the time to press for further details would come, but maybe not just yet. And so he'd let his bearer hold onto his secrets and allowed one of the court physicians in to stitch up his arm and apply a foul smelling salve to his lip.

Three days had passed and he hadn't seen hide nor hair of Lord Riven since, though he'd spoken briefly to his sister, Sir Elsa, when she returned from the marathon in fourth place, much to the Hon. Winston's obvious delight.

Now, outside his father's wardroom, the prince paused as the door swung open and Lord Riven stepped out in front of him.

"Excuse—your grace," Lord Riven stumbled over his words and made a stilted bow to the prince.

"My lord." He darted a glance at the closed door. "You've been speaking to my father." For some reason this acknowledgment made Lord Riven's cheeks flush in a most uncharacteristic manner.

He actually shuffled a little before the prince.

"This was your suspicion," the prince continued, tired of the awkwardness that seemed to have taken root between them. "What made you suspect that my—the duke was alive?"

"I met him, a month ago, on the Salsotoria Flats. He nearly cleaved my head from my shoulders."

Prince Aubrey shook his head. "But how—how did you recognize him?"

Lord Riven's jaw clenched and he looked away, eyes growing distant, fixed on something far from Aubrey. "It would take a great deal more than time to make me forget that face. The owner being, as he is, the architect of my own grief."

Ice clenched around Prince Aubrey's heart.

"My lord," he whispered.

"It is something," Riven interrupted him, "at least, to bring him to justice now, as I am sure your venerable father will see fit to show him no lenience."

The prince nodded slowly.

So, that was the end of Lord Riven's schemes, his suspicions confirmed and the King informed. He would be leaving with his sister later that day, no doubt. But perhaps, the prince considered in the privacy of his own thoughts, he would not stay away again so long this time.

He bowed his head another inch, a deference to the many services Lord Riven had provided his family, and stepped back, preparing to turn away and leave before he gave himself away.

"You mistake me though," Lord Riven said in a rush, following his retreat. "If you think that is what I had to speak to your father about."

"Then what?" Prince Aubrey held his breath and didn't dare to hope—though it is not a great leap to surmise he did nothing in that moment except hope.

"I do not discount the fact that you could do better—that I am not without defect or enemies. But my sister tells me I have been a bear these past two days without—without—"

"I do remember you," the prince said and reached out his hand. "A little. But I wish—"

"Yes?"

"I desire to know you better. Do not go. Stay?"

Lord Riven swallowed and reached out one hand. It trembled a little. Prince Aubrey grasped it between bother of his and squeezed.

"Stay with me?"

"Yes, my prince, always."

_Continued in All the King's Men, Book Two in The Kingdom of Pacchia - Now Available!_

_Keep reading for a sneak peak of All the King's Men..._

## **CHAPTER NINE**

### **_Sneak Peak - Book 2: All the King's Men_**

###

**What's Past Is Prologue - Salsotoria Flats**

****

He was Lord Riven now, thanks to one god-forsaken traitorous Duke. Eight years crushed under the weight of the title made that fact impossible to forget.

He was the last Lord Riven so long as his sister remained unmated and likewise childless. He could not die on this field. Not today. Not at the hands of foreign mercenaries—bought by his grasping neighbors, too cowardly to fight their own way to his door.

Dierik Riven pushed his black hair, lank with sweat and blood, out of his eyes. His gauntlets flexed, creaking under the weary pull of his fingers as he resettled his sword hilt in his right hand, the weight of it drawing down his shoulder.

Still, as he stared up at the cresting wave of the enemy's cavalry, wishing uselessly for a pikeman at his shoulder, he reflected that there had to be something noble about an end such as this—though he denied the prospect in the same breath. What better than to fall in defense of one's family? In embittered combat to hold onto one of the last good things he still possessed in this wretched life?

But no—no, better not to entertain such a thought as that, not even for a moment.

The last Lord Riven planted his feet in the muck and ducked low under the first rider's swing, cutting the horse's legs from underneath his enemy and unseating the man with a harsh cry and a flash of silver under the heavy sun. Dierik met the man's sword, hacking at him, pushing the advantage to keep the taller man off guard.

Around them, the loyal vassals of House Riven, few though they were, the sons of farmers and fishermen who had worked his family's lands for as long as the Lords Riven had controlled them, fell back a step against the mounted mercenaries from the north, their cries echoing now in Lord Riven's ears, even as he pressed his assailant to the ground.

With a cry, his sword glanced off the man's shoulder guard, catching the edge of his helm on the point and flinging it off into the melee.

Riven felt his guts freeze and his steps faltered. Perhaps, the hesitation truly would have met him his end as his opponent brought his sword around in a quick flash of steel. Might well have lost his own head but for an arrow loosed from forty yards over his shoulder and bearing the blue fletching of his house that sent the other man—did his eyes deceive him? Was it really?—fumbling for cover lest he lose an eye to the next missile.

The Lord Riven gasped for breath, half-formed words tumbling from his lips as the battle swelled and struggling bodies separated him from—but it could not have been, surely the Duke Briere would not be so brazen as to return to Pacchia's shores now? Surely he would not—but why wouldn't he? Why wouldn't he return to finish the job he began on Dierik's family eight years ago?

Iron steeled his blood and the last Lord Riven firmed his grip on his sword. Surely, he could strike hard enough now to find out one way or the other.

#

**Chapter One - The Court of Vipers**

****

Prince Aubrey sat in his father's council, wreathed in an air of calm repose but for the rabbit-fast flutter of his heart beneath his well-dressed breast. His eyes roamed across the assembled lords, mostly betas and omegas, as their cool heads were generally considered the best attendants to matters of delicate political discourse. It was the reason Aubrey sat on his father's left hand while his bearer reclined on the King's right.

His unruffled expression hid a storm brewing under his skin and it took a not inconsiderable amount of concentration to keep his mouth a neutral line as one after the other noble hedged around the issue of Lord Riven's claims.

_Claims_ they spoke, as though the evidence of his suspicions—a plot against the King's very life—did not sit shackled in the High Court's deepest dungeon. Many now assembled there practically speaking over top one another to throw doubt on Lord Riven himself and divert it from Lord Bourn—and perhaps even themselves, a small, suspicious part of Aubrey's brain whispered.

It was gross enough maneuvering to tarnish what little respect the prince may have felt for these assembled lords, watching them line up to try and divert the wolves from their own doorstep to the one man loyal enough to abandon the defense of his borders to follow a suspicion to the King's halls.

That Prince Aubrey felt something akin to partiality for this particular Lord Riven's face—as well as other parts of him—was entirely coincidental. Whatever he felt for Lord Riven was immaterial: facts were facts. And the facts clearly indicated that Lord Bourn had hired the King's brother, the exiled Duke Briere to wage war against Riven. That it was Bourn money which had paid Briere's way back to Pacchia's shores. That House Bourn was not the only house which had, in the past eight years, attempted to forcibly wrest House Riven's lands from Dierik and his sister, Sir Elsa—the only surviving members of that once proud and sprawling family.

Now, he wrapped his fingers in the hem of his jerkin to keep from fidgeting in front of this assembled witch hunt and thereby betray himself. Now, he grit his teeth against the words building up behind them, seeking but a moment to flay the next man or woman with a suspicious word to cast against Dierik.

"I simply do not see how we are to take... Sir _Riven's_ words at face value? Is there anyone who can corroborate his claims? Another who can say with some surety that Duke Briere was indeed spotted at the Flats sometime before high summer? My butler tells me that the Duke's features are much changed from his time spent abroad. Could young Master Riven have been mistaken?"

Aubrey resisted the urge to snort aloud. Lord Astor said "abroad" like his uncle had not spent the last nine years exiled from Pacchia—expressly forbidden from ever setting foot on their soil again lest he face execution. His appearance inside the castle was, by law, enough to see him beheaded.

Indeed, it seemed to the prince, as he sat in his father's court listening to the forked tongues speak around him, that this entire preceding was little more than an elaborate show. It made something rash and hot begin to boil under his skin. He clenched his hands together beneath the height of the High King's long table with nary a twitch from emotion allowed to darken his features.

Would it do him any good to call Lord Astor, or any of them for that matter, out at this moment? He had to keep a cool head and catalogue the positions of the peerage before—

Before what? he asked himself. He had not, after all, thrown his lot in with Lord Riven. Not in any official capacity. Not in any manner that those gathered around him now could know about.

The prince's mind drifted as another whining voice fell and rose over the combined rustling from the Lords of Pacchia—drifted to thoughts of a bright morning not a week prior, when the morning sun had warmed his skin, had lingered on the flesh of another, their hands grasped together in a secret promise spoken between...

But he was being fanciful, allowing his memory to run away from him like that.

"My Lords assembly, please, let us pause here and cut to the chase," Baron Laidy Belgrave's clear, ringing voice cut across the drone dribbling from a sleepy-eyed Lord's mouth clear on the other end of the room. Laidy Belgrave stood with a commanding air, one hand resting on her sword pommel and the other tucked into her belt. "It is of little weight what we discuss today. There is nothing to be done but call a _gemōt_ to discuss this most serious matter in an appropriately serious way. Do you not all agree?" And in the same manner, she hiked up one dark eyebrow in challenge.

At the head of the table, the High King steepled his hands and nodded. "Your logic, Baron Belgrave, is as sound as I have long since come to expect it to be." He waved away the sound of protest gathering in Lord Astor's mouth. "We will adjourn for today. The calendar will be consulted and a _gemōt_ forthwith called. In the meantime, all of you return to your affairs, your homes, your families until the proper time."

Some grumbling accompanied the High King's command but in short order the assembled peers began trickling from the king's court, words carefully chosen so long as they remained in earshot of one another. The whole show made Prince Aubrey want to roll his eyes, sick of it.

The prince's manservant, the Honorable Winston Dupuis, stood waiting for him in the hall. His posture told the inattentive eye something casual, but Aubrey knew his friend well enough to notice the tension lingering at the corners of his mouth.

They fell into step with one another, briskly making their way through the castle into the Royal wing. Guards along the way bowed their heads at Aubrey's passing and let them through a series of locked doors until at last they arrived at the prince's personal suite.

Life in the High King's court had not always been thus. In fact, for the last eight or nine years, Pacchia had been relatively peaceful as far as the court had seen. There were always struggles and squabbles breaking out between the peers and minor lords, but those clashes had remained remote—removed from Aubrey's own cosseted life as the only son and heir to the throne.

Never had he seen so many guards called to standing arms in the castle corridors. Never had there been so many locks and door braces erected between himself and the rest of the bustling castle. Not that his beloved father could be faulted for taking such precautions.

No, Prince Aubrey, despite being little more than a naive child—or so it felt when it came to war—could well appreciate the sick fear that must now permeate his father's heart to know that an assassin had penetrated so intimately their lives and without raising an alarm.

If not for Lord Riven—but he couldn't bring himself to imagine it.

By his side, the Hon. Winston clasped his elbow in a firm grip and steered him into his private study where a hot tea tray had been laid out for two.

"Is it so late already?" the prince asked in a distracted tone.

"Aye." Winston's blunt, calloused fingers looked almost comical against the delicate white china as he went about the business of pouring them each a cup and adding an obscene amount of sugar to his own—spooning in several teaspoons of the unevenly lumped brown sugar before he would be satisfied with the drink—and handing the plain, unsweetened one to Aubrey. "You should eat something too."

The prince cracked his back with a pained groan before he accepted his cup, preferring to stand rather than sit after a very long morning of sitting.

"I'm not especially hungry."

"Well, I'm starved."

"Please—" Aubrey gestured to the silver plates full of cold cuts and the toast rack. "Avail yourself."

Winston popped a pickled radish into his mouth and positioned the toast just above the fire crackling in the hearth.

The prince noted his friend's muddy boots.

"Were you out riding?"

Winston squinted at the flames licking orange along the edges of his lunch. "Something like that. Say, do you know Sir Riven?"

"Lord Riven's sister?"

"Aye, the lass."

"We were introduced at the fête but only briefly. I would not say that I knew her. Why?"

"She seems like a fairly capable young alpha, wouldn't you say?"

"A fine archer, for sure," Aubrey allowed, remembering Sir Elsa Riven's performance during the recent Tri-fête competition.

"Good with a horse too it turns out," Winston mused.

"So you were out riding?"

His manservant, and closest friend, poured himself a second cup of tea and withdrew the toast from the fire, cursing under his breath as he moved too soon to pluck the little squares of bread off the hot metal.

"I might have been." Winston gave Aubrey a sly little grin from under his eyelashes, laughing at the prince's exasperated sigh.

"How very nice for you to further relations with House Riven."

"Don't make it sound so sordid, my lord, it was nothing so scandalous as your words would imply. I was a perfect gentleman."

"And so was Sir Elsa, I imagine. A fair sight more gentlemanly than you I bet."

"You wound me," Winston mumbled around his toast, mouth shiny with butter.

For all his fine upbringing and position at Aubrey's side, Winston could be a regular beast at the supper table when no fine beta or omega ladies were present.

"How was council?"

Aubrey closed his eyes and leaned against the windowsill overlooking his bearer's rose garden. The scent of late blooming flowers drifted up to him on a crisp autumn breeze.

"Much as you would expect."

Winston _hmmed_ thoughtfully. "Oh, that reminds me." He withdrew a small, carefully folded piece of thin parchment, sealed with a bit of wax and handed it to the prince. "Sir Robert asked me deliver that directly into your hands."

Prince Aubrey took the note with some small measure of hesitation, his fingers picking at the wax without removing it.

"Aren't you going to read it?"

"I don't believe I need to."

His friend made a considering noise in the back of his throat. "I rather like the Lord and Sir Riven," he said, changing the subject.

"I've noticed."

"Hard to dislike a fellow who saves the life of the High King _and_ the Crown Prince."

"There are those at court who would disagree with you."

Winston assembled a tiny tower of sliced bread and cheese. It teetered precariously on Aubrey's abandoned saucer.

"Just eat a bite so I can tell Sir James's manservant that you've eaten."

Aubrey shook his head but his friend could not be deterred and he soon found the sandwich wedged between his fingers with a significant look.

"Perhaps we could have them over for tea," Winston mused some time later when the dishes had been cleared away and the hot water in their teapot refreshed. He had moved to a chaise lounge, his booted feet hanging off the end to keep the embroidered fabric free of paddock dirt.

Aubrey had taken up a seat at his desk in an attempt to distract his dark thoughts with work. He had thus far found it almost impossible to focus on his notes long enough to get more than a line here or there transcribed out of his personal shorthand and written properly into the book on local ornithology he had been working on that past spring. Fall was not an ideal time to continue the book but it was just a bit of copy and paste effort, nothing that should require a great deal of attention.

A sorry state of affairs for a prince to allow the peerage to so effect his work.

"Who should we have over?" he asked, glaring at the fine wood grain under his hands.

"Lord and Sir Riven. But forget tea, a proper lunch would be better, don't you think?"

Aubrey hesitated. His fingers tightened around his quill pen and he cursed when a drop of dark ink splashed across what little work he'd managed.

"I'm not entirely certain that would be appropriate," Aubrey hedged, reaching for a blotting cloth.

Winston wrinkled his nose. He'd kept his sword buckled at his side and it should have looked uncomfortable, sprawled across the furniture as he was, but somehow the red haired man made it look effortless. He hadn't always gone thus armed in the prince's private quarters, but for all his cavalier manners, the Hon. Winston was as circumspect in his actions when it came to Aubrey's safety as any of the many men lining the halls.

The prince often wondered what he had done to garner Winston's unflagging loyalty, what good thing he must have accomplished in a past life to warrant such a friend in this one.

"It might be viewed as favoritism."

His manservant paused, tilting his head in consideration. "I suppose you have a point. That would be bad. Unless..."

Aubrey knew he would regret indulging the other man's leading question but his tongue moved faster than his prudence in some cases, including this one. "Unless what? What are you thinking?"

"That you wouldn't mind showing a little favoritism in this instance."

"Perhaps I wouldn't, but it matters not. I walk, as always, a delicate tightrope between what I _do_ desire and what I _should_ desire."

Winston sat up and stretched. "And do you desire Lord Riven?"

The prince arched his brow, quill hovering over his blotter to prevent further ruinous blotches. "Do you desire his sister?"

A dull red flush suffused the Hon. Winston's pale freckled skin and he looked away, clearing his throat. "Of course not. It wouldn't be right. Can one not merely admire another's skill with a horse?"

"Hmm." The prince nodded to himself and made a concentrated effort to while away the rest of the afternoon and evening away with work as Winston first paced around the room before excusing himself once the light began to change outside.

When the water clock on his desk showed the dinner hour, he packed up his book, careful of any pages that might still be in the process of setting, and made his way to the royal family's private dining room. It was comparatively small and intimate, large enough to seat a dozen or so rather comfortably, and far less ornately dressed than the main dining hall used for feast days and holidays.

Aubrey found his bearer already present, overseeing the serving maids setting out the silverware and the soup in a large copper tureen. His venerable father was no where to be seen but this was not surprising—no doubt several of the lords had required a personal word with the High King after the council had been dismissed.

A servant pulled out the chair to the right hand of the king's seat for Aubrey.

"Good evening, my love," his bearer—Sir James, Crown Consort of Pacchia—leaned over his son's shoulder and pressed a kiss to the top of his hair. Sir James had always been more prone to taking comfort in touching his loved ones, but since the night of the assassination attempt, his attentions had been increased thrice fold. Aubrey might have found his bearer smothering if the image of Duke Briere threatening his unarmed father wasn't quite so fresh in his own mind.

"Good evening."

"Will Winston not be joining us this evening?"

"No, I don't believe so. He's otherwise engaged with work."

"Keeping busy."

Though employed as a manservant, the Hon. Winston had been Aubrey's bosom companion since they were very small boys and, as the son of one of Pacchia's noble families, privileged to a degree of partiality by the members of the royal family that was not always afforded men of his position.

Sir James _hmmed_ an acknowledgement and directed for one of the servers to pour the wine.

"I expect your father will be impossibly late so don't we just get started without him."

"If you're certain," Aubrey replied, turning away from the tense expression in his papa's eyes.

#

Dierik watched his sister polish her boots without really paying her any attention. His dark mood consumed his thoughts: one face in particular recurring again and again to haunt him. The taste of dirt and blood between his teeth though he hadn't participated in anything more strenuous all day than a short walk from his guest quarters to the royal library—not the personal library preferred by the royal family but the one open to the nobles and court solicitors.

He couldn't ignore the slight afforded him by being excluded from the emergency council meeting called just after the eleventh bell that morning. It was small consolation that he hadn't yet been arrested, but Dierik could not help regarding their rooms in the castle—as well guarded as they had become of late—were one mere step away from the dungeons.

He worried it was only a short matter of time before some clever tongue weaved words of his demise in the High King's ear. And where he had been briefly led to believe that the Crown Prince felt a deep sense of partiality for his person, it had been a week since they last encountered one another and that only in passing without another word being spoken. Not even a note.

Maybe, he should not lie to himself that stronger words of passion had been exchanged following the fête when in reality—

"I didn't realize you were so invested in the upkeep of my riding clothes," his sister's voice brought Dierik abruptly out of his grim reverie. Elsa's mouth quirked in a knowing grin. "Or perhaps you were dreaming of your little prince."

Dierik grunted and poured the wine for both of them: a rich red and heady. An older vintage than anything they'd been free to indulge in at Riven House in many years—he would't countenance wine on his table if it meant those men still loyal to his house went without enough meat to fill their bellies.

"Not that I could blame you," Elsa continued. "He is quite the finest example of omega—"

"I warn you to consider carefully how you finish that thought, sister."

Elsa laughed loud and bright at the growl suffusing his words and threw her blackened rag over her shoulder. He glared as she continued to laugh at his expense even as her nimble fingers worked to hang and straighten her armor on the dummy stand set up in the corner. At least he could not fault her care when it came to attending her kit—taking some small measure in pride that perhaps it had been his own conscientious attitudes which had instilled a similar carefulness in his sister.

It had not been easy as a young man to suddenly find himself not only the head of his house, but also the sole caregiver for his much younger sibling. And a girl—what had be known about the proper care of a girl! Thank the heavens she had been an alpha.

Yet despite these odds stacked against the young Rivens surviving out their first year without parents, let alone all the ones to come after, survive they had managed.

But perhaps he gave himself too much credit when, in fact, Elsa's success had far more to do with her own steadfast and serious character. Not unlike his own, at first glance, but far less melancholy and the better for being subject to her lighter spirit—tempered by an appreciation for beautiful things and easy camaraderie with others that Dierik did not come by so naturally.

Now, Elsa crossed their common room, hands dirty from her work, and brushed his dark hair off his forehead with a sigh.

"You'll give yourself wrinkles before your time if you insist on sitting there with a thundercloud on your brow, Dierik."

"I believe it may be too late to avoid them," he murmured, his mood cheering somewhat when she smiled at the joke.

"At least they make you look more distinguished, but perhaps we can yet stave off the gray hairs." She ruffled her fingers through the short shorn hair around his ear. "Unless your little prince appreciates an elderly appearance?"

Dierik rolled his eyes and pulled her hand away from his hair. Elsa laughed and squeezed his fingers.

"Forgive me," she chuckled. "Forgive me, I only tease."

"I know."

She cocked her head with a considering look and pulled a chair up next to their fire. "But perhaps you don't appreciate it as much as I thought—nor even the suggestion. Forgive me."

"Of course, don't I always."

"Said as though I am some beastly thing you've been cursed with the job of appeasing." Elsa threw herself into the chair and crossed her stockinged feet at the ankles, all long limbs and careless grace.

"Who says that is not the case."

Elsa's eyes twinkled in the orange firelight before her face smoothed into something more serious.

"Have you given it some consideration how much longer you intend us to remain encamped here? I had not asked before because I assumed..." she hesitated, fingers drumming a syncopated rhythm. "But perhaps I was hasty to assume."

Something tightened in his chest as Dierik looked away from her. "Perhaps. I am uncertain we can leave yet."

"For appearances sake or...?"

He cleared his throat, pushing away the regret that tinged his thoughts of the Crown Prince. "For appearances. There's enough talk right now to discredit my word here. I admit that I'm somewhat afraid what rumors might abound in my absence."

"I feared as much. And as loath as I am to leave you in this nest of snakes alone without someone to watch your back, I am increasingly worried by the fact we've left our steward to organize the harvest all on his own."

"You're right." Dierik mussed his hair with an aggravated noise.

"Seeing as the fête was cancelled, there is no reason for my continued presence in the strictest sense. I will never be called to council so long as you are around. With your leave, I would begin preparations to return home with my retinue. Unless there is some task you would have me fulfill here first?"

The Lord Riven grunted and shook his head. He reached out for Elsa's hand. "I would that you did not have to leave me either, if for no other reason than to keep me from strangling Lord Astor and his cohort, but you're right. Of course you're right. One of us must be present to help with the harvest. After all, Steward is truly an old man," he said with particular emphasis in hopes of eliciting another smile from his sister. Dierik was thus rewarded in quick order.

"Then it's agreed," Elsa said. "You will have to be your own keeper in my absence. Unless it is your desire that I become the next Lord Riven before the new year." She stabbed a finger in his face. "Not that I mean that as an encouragement."

A second later, her words caught up with her because Elsa cringed and darted a quick look at him from the corner of her eye.

"I mean to say—" she began only to be waved off.

"No, it is—it is the way it is and I do not fault... That is to say, you are in no danger, I assure you. It was a foolish dream I will be fully disabused of before all things are settled here at court, I assure you."

"Forgive me," she murmured.

"No, there's nothing to forgive."

Still, Elsa's mouth turned down in an unhappy line as the two Rivens turned to watch the logs burn in their fire, crackling into blackened husks that would eventually collapse in a shower of sparks. They were interrupted from their mutually melancholy thoughts, however, by a series of shouts echoing down the hall and the toll of bells.

Elsa started and glanced at the water clock on the wall. "It is not the hour."

Dierik stood and crossed the room in a few long strides, ears pricked to the rising din outside their door. Whatever had prompted the commotion did not sound genial at the very least, and he felt the fine hairs stand up on the back of his neck, dread coiling in his gut. Behind him, Elsa cursed as she drew her heavy boots back on and grabbed her padded doublet from the careless pile of overclothes she'd discarded earlier in the evening in favor of attending to her armor.

The hurried march of armored footsteps ran through the stones as what sounded like a battalion of guards rushed past their quarters headed deeper into the castle—towards the royal wing.

Elsa grabbed Dierik's elbow before he could swing the door open.

"Stay—stay, let me summon a servant to find out the meaning behind all this commotion. Please, brother, stay yourself a moment and think."

His heart raced, a thread of panic beating at his thoughts, but the Lord Riven yielded to her sensible words and Dierik resolved himself to wait for news rather than chase after it. At least until he heard something worth chasing.

Elsa rang the bell for the serving girl assigned to them and sent the girl running for her squire currently stationed with the rest of the fresh recruits in the King's Guard. Dierik confined himself to pacing in front of the fire while they waited. Not a quarter of an hour later, Elsa ushered the young boy inside, one hand moving automatically to straighten his poorly buttoned shirt.

"What news have you, Allen? Speak quick and succinctly, Lord Riven is not in a mood for any of your hyperbole," she demanded.

Allen O'Leary, the youngest son born from House Riven's hound master, dipped his head in a hasty bow, clenching trembling hands in the trailing edge of his tunic. He looked like he'd been half roused from his sleep though the hour was not so late. Dierik observed the boy's pale face and nervous expression and found that it did little but make the anxiety in his own gut double in size.

"Well, speak!" Elsa grabbed the boy's shoulder and shook him. "What has happened?"

"The—the king," Allen stuttered, looking like he might be sick at any moment. "I heard one of the men say the king was—" He swallowed thickly. "Was dead."

And even as he spoke the words into existence, the bells in the castle's belfry began tolling a slow, mournful peel.

_Continue reading The Kingdom of Pacchia Book 2: All the King's Men now available!_
If you enjoyed this story please consider leaving a quick review—it only takes a couple minutes and would be very much appreciated!

x.o.x.o,

Lia

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**About the Author**

Lia Cooper is a twentysomething native of the Pacific Northwest, a voracious reader and an enthusiastic writer. She wrote her first short story when she was seven. THE DUALITY PARADIGM is her first published full length novel.

She enjoys binge watching shows on Netflix, all-but-living in her local coffee shop, and drinking americanos. Lia cheers for the Chicago Blackhawks, rereads _Pride & Prejudice_ every year, and is still bitterly disappointed over the cancellation of Stargate Atlantis (shhh).

Stay tuned for Blood & Bone Book Three Coming Winter 2014!
**Other Works by Lia Cooper**

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**Blood & Bone Series**

The Duality Paradigm (Book One)

The Convergence Theory (Book Two)

The Symbiotic Law (Book Three)

A Sanguin Solution (Book Four coming in 2016!)

**The Kingdom of Pacchia Series**

The Omega Prince (Book One)

All the King's Men (Book Two)

The Honorable Beta (Book Three)

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**Stand Alone Titles**

Hotspot FREE! (M/M Soulbonding Contemporary Magical Realism)

Cold Press (Palouse County #1 M/M Contemporary Holiday Novella)

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**Complete Works can be found on Lia's Website:**

<http://liacooperwrites.wordpress.com/books/>

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