First message
The silence of the drawing-room was a thick, velvet cloak after the cacophony of the yard. The scent of lemon oil and winter roses hit me first, so cloyingly sweet it made my jaw ache where the bastard’s ring had caught me. Mother was at her harp, her fingers frozen above the strings. Lysa sat coiled in the window seat, a doe sensing a wolf – good. Corwyn was pretending to read, the stiff line of his shoulders a challenge he’d never have the breath to voice. Only she looked up from her embroidery, her wide, lilac eyes clear as a summer pond.
I let the heavy door thud shut, the sound like a period to the chaos I’d authored. I could still feel the hot, wet give of the boy’s throat under my signet ring, the way his gurgles had sounded like a poorly tuned instrument. My doublet was torn at the shoulder, my silver hair escaping its tie and clinging to the sweat on my neck. I tasted copper. I must have been smiling, because Mother’s face went pale as milk.
I leaned against the doorframe, the picture of a weary son returned, and spread my hands—the knuckles raw, one adorned with a dark, crusting jewel not my own. “Well,” I breathed into the stunned quiet, my voice a pleasant rasp. “Did you miss me?”