House of Shadows (Royal Houses 2)

When she stepped out of the room, Langdan was waiting for her, but Fordham was nowhere in sight.

“Where has Fordham gone off to?”

Langdan narrowed his eyes. “His Royal Highness has already retired to his chambers.”

“Right. His Royal Highness,” she said, trying not to let the words come out sour.

“If I were you, I would be sure to use the formal denotation while you’re here.”

“Of course,” she said. “I assume that you are to escort me.”

“Indeed,” he said flatly and then turned on his heel.

She resisted the urge to kick his shin. But she thought about it.

Langdan either took her on the most circuitous path around the mountain or no one lived here. They didn’t see anyone. No whispers trailed behind her. Maybe no one even knew they were here besides Benton and Bayton and this insufferable dolt.

“Here we are,” Langdan said.

Langdan rapped on the door twice, and Fordham’s face appeared a moment later.

“What?” he snarled.

Langdan straightened and gulped at the tone. “I have brought your … lady.”

Fordham arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t set up rooms for her?”

Langdan looked scandalized at the suggestion. “Certainly not.”

Kerrigan’s cheeks flushed at the insinuation that they wouldn’t need separate quarters. Why else would a half-Fae walk willingly into these halls?

“Let her pass,” Fordham finally bit out. “And tell my father I am ready to see him.”

“Of course, Your Royal Highness,” Langdan said. He looked over his shoulder once before disappearing down the hallway.

Fordham jerked the door the rest of the way open. “Get in.”

Kerrigan didn’t object. How would she even begin? She felt wildly out of her depth. She stepped across the threshold into his suite of rooms. They were night and day compared to the corridors. Complete with plush rugs, tapestries and paintings covering the stone walls, and a magnificent set of black-and-silver lounging chairs. An arched doorway led to a bedchamber with a writing desk and fireplace. Only the nicest suites in Draco Mountain had fireplaces that would vent out. And she could tell by the additional set of adjoining rooms that this was probably the lushest and over-the-top room she’d ever walked into. And that was saying a lot.

Fordham snapped the door closed behind her. “Well, this is a disaster.”

“Nothing has happened yet.”

“Precisely. Langdan waited for us at the doors. He’s my father’s chief buffoon and was there to handle us. I would almost expect the bathing before an official meeting but then depositing me into my old rooms …” He shook his head. “And you …”

“Me?”

He huffed. “He didn’t give you separate rooms.”

“Noticed that. Why is that a problem? I mean, besides the obvious,” she said, her eyes drifting to the canopy bed in the other room.

“It’s about propriety,” Fordham said. He paced back and forth in the sitting room as irritation clogged the very air she breathed. “He must think you’re my concubine.”

Kerrigan choked on the word. “Is that … is that a thing here?”

“Yes. Well, no. Usually, it’s just a mistress, but I am unwed. So, that makes you a whore.”

Kerrigan wanted to be offended that they assumed that, but all she could do was laugh. She doubled over at the thought. That she, Kerrigan Argon—originally Princess Felicity, First of the House of Cruse, and now a member of the Society as a dragon rider—could be something as simple as someone else’s whore.

“Stop laughing,” Fordham said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to get it under control. “But it’s absurd.”

“Where you are from perhaps but not here.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand. Half-Fae are not treated as equals.”

“Obviously.”

“The best you could hope for would be to become the concubine of the crowned prince. And I was aware that it was going to be difficult to convince my father that you’re a Society member and ally, but now, we’re starting below zero in a world where perception is everything.”

“Fine. Fine.” She wiped her hand down her face and shook off the last of her laughter. “Wouldn’t it have been better for us to discuss this before coming here?”

“When would we have, Kerrigan?” he demanded. “While you were out, drinking with your friends, or when you were hungover on the flight?”

“I don’t know. Maybe before or after you told me you were exiled,” she snapped right back.

He froze at the words. “I wanted to tell you.”

“Don’t bother, princeling,” she said, retreating to his nickname to keep them on solid ground.

“As you wish, halfling.”

The word cut just a little bit more than normal.

“What do we do now?” she asked after a moment of silence.

“Wait for my father to see us.”

Kerrigan looked at him skeptically. “I don’t do well with sit tight and wait your turn.”

“We’re trying not to get either of us killed.”

“I can’t make any promises.”

Fordham chose to ignore her comment and headed into the bedroom, pulling a sheaf of papers out of the writing desk. He sat before it and began to write his sad, broody boy poetry. Meanwhile, she did what she always did when trapped inside with nothing to do—she slowly went crazy.