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But the sword with the eagle-shaped pommel was not hanging at his side.
Chaol?
“I do not expect you to trust me; I do not expect you to love me.”
DUDE. How could anyone love you Arobynn??
A year ago, a bit shattered and reckless from Lithaen’s betrayal, it had intrigued him enough that he’d spent the summer sharing her bed.
THE FUCK CHAOL. POT. KETTLE. BLACK.
A month ago, she and Rowan had chosen to face the Valg princes together—to die together, if need be, rather than do so alone.
But anyone with witch-blood in their veins was worth keeping an eye on.
They weren’t stopped or questioned by anyone else, though the guards in every hall watched them like hawks. And not the shape-shifting Fae Prince kind.
“When you shatter the chains of this world and forge the next, remember that art is as vital as food to a kingdom. Without it, a kingdom is nothing, and will be forgotten by time. I have amassed enough money in my miserable life to not need any more—so you will understand me clearly when I say that wherever you set your throne, no matter how long it takes, I will come to you, and I will bring music and dancing.”
She was the heir of fire. She was fire, and light, and ash, and embers. She was Aelin Fireheart, and she bowed for no one and nothing, save the crown that was hers by blood and survival and triumph.
Either way, he found himself smiling. Death was death.
Behind them, across the hall, the dancers shattered their roses on the floor, and Aedion grinned at his queen as the entire world went to hell.
She was a whirling cloud of death, a queen of shadows, and these men were already carrion.
Even if there was another scent entwined with hers. Staggeringly powerful and ancient and—male. Interesting.
Rowan?
Rowan was the most powerful full-blooded Fae male alive. And his scent was all over her. Yet she had no gods-damned idea.
if the Fae Prince expected to be offered the blood oath, then … It was an effort to keep from tightening his grip on Aelin.
Oops...
His casual arm around her shoulders was a glorious, solid weight as they approached the others.
She mutely handed him her favorite lavender-scented soap, which he sniffed at, sighed in resignation, and then began using.
Not the lavender soap!!! Saaaaaaaam....
That gods-damned nightgown. Shit. He was in such deep, unending shit.
Seventeen-year-old Rowan wouldn’t have known what to do with you. He could barely speak to females outside his family. Liar—I don’t believe that for a second. It’s true. You would have scandalized him with your nightclothes—even with that dress you have on.
