“Think of it,” Fiona murmured, against his chest. “You are bodyguard to the queen—in a perfect position to eliminate her and that pallid sister of hers. Then they’ll have no choice but to make a change in the succession. I’ll be there to step in, and you can support me on the council. Once I’m queen, my father will no longer be giving the orders.”

Murder Raisa. Fiona meant to murder Raisa and claim the throne for herself. Han’s pulse pounded in his ears, making it difficult to put two thoughts together.

You’re the one needs murdering, he thought.

She leaned back from him, studying his face, still keeping hold of his stoles. “Well? Do we have a bargain?”

It would be so easy, he thought, looking down into Fiona’s impatient face. Nobody knew he was in the Council House. A quick killing charm or a blade to the throat, and this threat to Raisa would be handled.

But only one threat among many. He had to keep his game going—he had to play for it all if he was ever going to make Raisa safe.

He couldn’t very well pretend to sign on to murder Raisa, but he didn’t want Fiona going off and hiring her own bravo to do the job. Better to be on the inside of this little plan.

He struggled to control the rage in his voice, make his tone cold and sardonic.

“Will you be there to support me when I climb the deadly nevergreen and dangle for murder?” Han said. “Seems like I’m putting in a lot more than you.”

Fiona looked confused, as if the offer to couple with her was all he could ever hope for. “What else do you want?”

“You say you’ll make me consort,” Han said. “If I’m to do the killing, I mean to aim higher.”

She blinked at him, nonplussed. “Higher than consort? You? What else could you possibly want?”

“Maybe I want to be king,” he said. “Help me, and I’ll make you consort.”

He’d never seen Fiona Bayar totally speechless before. It was far more pleasant than hearing her talk.

“You? A king?” The color drained from her face, leaving it sheet-white with anger. “A jumped-up, gutterbred thief—son of a—a ragpicker? I present you with a serious and generous proposal, and you answer with this preposterous—”

And then Han lost his temper. He was so bloody tired of hearing the who do you think you are line from the Bayars. And he was afraid—afraid he’d make a misstep and Raisa would die.

He gripped Fiona’s elbows, gripped them hard. “Is it preposterous? Is it?” He gazed into her eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

Fiona’s usually icy eyes had gone wide and a little frightened. “You’re Han Alister. A…street thief turned wizard.”