Vengeful Prince by Mary E. Twomey

Author:Mary E. Twomey [Twomey, Mary E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-07-01T16:00:00+00:00

16

Belief in Goodness

Lilya

If there was a time my knees were trembling more than they are now, I cannot recall it. The door to King Ronin’s study is cracked, but I’m too afraid to push it open.

“It’s alright, blue eyes. I’m right here.”

Des is wonderful. Truly a good guy, but this is something I have to do for myself. “King Ronin said for me to meet with him, not us. And I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean all of us.” I eye the guys, trying to fake confidence I don’t feel. “If you all go in with me, it’ll make me look weak.” Then I motion to Des. “Besides, Healer Clare told you to take it easy. She told you to rest. This does not qualify.” I lean up on my toes to kiss his cheek. Apparently, we do that now.

Des’ unshaven jaw is firm. “I’m not leaving you to deal with my family. We’re in this together. All of us.”

The guys nod, but I really don’t want to keep discussing this. Before I can open my mouth to protest, the door swings open the rest of the way, revealing King Ronin in all of his pressed and polished glory. Just standing there in his suit, his presence is so intimidating that my breath catches in my throat. “Gentlemen, she’s absolutely right. The child will be returned to you within the hour. Go on upstairs.” Then he ushers me inside and shuts the door in the guys’ worried faces.

King Ronin motions to a leather chair before taking his spot on the other side of the massive mahogany desk. There is a stack of papers to the left, but other than that, there’s nothing. Like this whole slab of wood exists simply to be intimidating.

Being this close to the king of Drexdenberg is daunting, for sure. He’s got Des’ black hair, but while Des’ is perpetually windblown on top, nothing about King Ronin is out of place. He’s wearing black fitted, pressed slacks with a vest beneath his matching suit jacket, and a crisp dress shirt that looks freshly ironed, though I know it can’t possibly be. His full head of hair is combed to the side, and his bow tie dangles open around his neck. While I know he’s Des’ great-grandfather, he looks no older than thirty-one, same age as Des. His sharp jawline match’s Des’, but where Des wears his nearly-trimmed five o’clock shadow at all hours, King Ronin is perfectly shaved and groomed, not a single eyebrow hair out of place. They have the same angle to their nose, the same height even, but the king has a way about him that is purely terrifying, like he could slice the head off a person and never get a single splatter on his pristine, fitted suit.

“Sit,” he commands, since I haven’t moved from the entrance. The whole place is dark wood with too-big furniture and emerald accents.

“No,” I counter, though why I pick this particular hill to die on is beyond me.

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