“Say it,” Des goads her, a smile drawing the edges of his lips up. “Finish the statement.” A chill slides over my skin. “Say it,” he says, quieter. The plants are whipping about, and Mara’s sharp green eyes are flinty. “You son of a whore. You’ll never be more than a bastard king, and your mate, a slave. You and your ilk disgrace my halls.” Des smiles, and the world goes dark.
