“Why would you give up the prisoners?” Prince Hawthorne asks, studying me with an uncharacteristically guarded expression.

I shrug. “I’ve learned what I can from them. They’re rural citizens whipped up into a frenzy by zealous radicals. They aren’t the real prize. I want to know who their leaders are—what they’re planning. The group who attacked don’t have any of that information. Better to have you pretend to break them out to gain favor with the rebels than for me to keep them from their families.”

Prince Hawthorne’s eyes look me over carefully, his gaze traveling up and down my body. I can sense the strength of his power as he assesses me, like it somehow calls to my own power and watches what I’ll do. Something buried deep inside of me, an awareness not dissimilar to the way the mist feels when it calls on me, stills and focuses wholly on the Prince, making its own assessment. The intimacy of the moment sends shivers through me that I attempt to mask. Those mossy, olive eyes flash brightly and he smirks again, like there’s some secret between us. I pointedly return my gaze to Silene, who is thoughtful and oblivious to whatever was just happening between the Prince and me.

“It could work,” she says slowly. “We’ll need to be careful, but I think we can pull it off. Fionn and I can go to the granary tomorrow and initiate first contact.”

I smile, then clap my hands together. “Excellent!” They all jump, a sure sign they aren’t as relaxed as they appear. “I’d like to keep meeting here, away from my advisors. For now, let’s keep this between us.” Silene’s eyes narrow, and I fear she’s guessed more about this situation than I want her to. I wave my hand, hoping to divert her suspicions. “They over complicate matters like this.” Not a lie. Also not the truth. Trusting them with information about the mole on my Council would be foolish. “Endless committees and chancellors make for effective day-to-day governing, but slow things down.” I’m not sure I’ve successfully assuaged her suspicion, but she says nothing. The Prince’s eyes sparkle. “Is there something else, Prince Hawthorne?” I ask.

He stands from his chair and bends into a deep bow, keeping his eyes locked on mine. “No, witchling, I’m at your service.” My mouth goes inexplicably dry at the way the deep timbre off his voice says ‘witchling,’ the nickname impacting me more than I want to admit. “Should we expect you tomorrow evening around the same time to debrief Fionn and Silene’s first contact?”

“Yes, same time tomorrow,” I say with forced iciness to hide the breathlessness I feel, before returning to my rooms and Lunaria’s knowing eyes.

Laurel