With the burning weight of Rowan’s attention upon her, she turned to show them the back—the roaring golden dragon clawing up her body. She looked over her shoulder in time to see Rowan’s eyes again slide south, and linger.

Slowly, his gaze lifted to hers. And she could have sworn that hunger—ravenous hunger—flickered there.

“Demons and dining,” Aedion said, clapping Rowan on the shoulder. “We should go.”

Her cousin passed her by with a wink. When she turned back to Rowan, still breathless, only cool observation remained on his face.

“You said you wanted to see me in this dress,” she said a bit hoarsely.

“I hadn’t realized the effect would be so …” He shook his head. He took in her face, her hair, the combs. “You look like—”

“A queen?”

“The fire-breathing bitch-queen those bastards claim you are.”

She chuckled, waving a hand toward him: the formfitting black jacket that showed off those powerful shoulders, the silver accents that matched his hair, the beauty and elegance of the clothes that made an enthralling contrast with the tattoo down the side of his face and neck. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Prince.”

An understatement. He looked … she couldn’t stop staring, that’s how he looked.

“Apparently,” he said, walking toward her and offering an arm, “we both clean up well.”

She gave him a sly grin as she took his elbow, the scent of almonds wrapping around her again. “Don’t forget your cloak. You’d feel rather guilty when all those poor mortal women combust at the sight of you.”

“I’d say likewise, but I think you’d enjoy seeing men bursting into flames as you strutted by.”

She winked at him, and his chuckle echoed through her bones and blood.

42

The front gates of the Assassins’ Keep were open, the gravel drive and manicured lawn lit with shimmering glass lamps. The pale stone estate itself was bright, beautiful, and inviting.

Aelin had told them what to expect on the carriage ride over, but even as they came to a stop at the foot of the steps, she looked at the two males crammed in with her and said, “Be on your guard, and keep your fat mouths shut. Especially with the Valg commander. No matter what you hear or see, just keep your fat mouths shut. No psychotic territorial bullshit.”

Aedion chuckled. “Remind me to tell you tomorrow how charming you are.”

But she wasn’t in the mood to laugh.

Nesryn jumped down from the driver’s seat and opened the carriage door. Aelin stepped out, leaving her cloak behind, and didn’t dare look to the house across the street—to the roof where Chaol and a few rebels were providing backup in case things went very, very wrong.

She was halfway up the marble steps when the carved oak doors swung open, flooding the threshold with golden light. It wasn’t the butler standing there, smiling at her with too-white teeth.

“Welcome home,” Arobynn purred.

He beckoned them into the cavernous entry hall. “And welcome to your friends.” Aedion and Nesryn moved around the carriage to the trunk in the back. Her cousin’s nondescript sword was drawn as they opened the compartment and yanked out the chained, hooded figure.

“Your favor,” Aelin said as they hauled him to his feet. The Valg commander thrashed and stumbled in their grip as they led him toward the house, the hood over his head swaying this way and that. A low, vicious hissing noise crept out from under the coarse-knit fibers.

“I would have preferred the servants’ door for our guest,” Arobynn said tightly. He was in green—green for Terrasen, though most would assume it was to offset his auburn hair. A way to confuse their assumptions about his intentions, his allegiance. He wore no weapons she could see, and there was nothing but warmth in those silver eyes as he held out his hands to her, as if Aedion wasn’t now tugging a demon up the front steps. Behind them, Nesryn steered the carriage away.

She could feel Rowan bristling, sense Aedion’s disgust, but she blocked them out.

She took Arobynn’s hands—dry, warm, callused. He squeezed her fingers gently, peering into her face. “You look ravishing, but I’d expect nothing less. Not even a bruise after trapping our guest. Impressive.” He leaned closer, sniffing. “And you smell divine, too. I’m glad my gift was put to good use.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Rowan straighten, and she knew he’d slid into the killing calm. Neither Rowan nor Aedion wore visible weapons save for the single blade her cousin now had out—but she knew they were both armed beneath their clothes, and knew Rowan would snap Arobynn’s neck if he so much as blinked wrong at her.

It was that thought alone that made her smile at Arobynn. “You look well,” she said. “I suppose you already know my companions.”

He faced Aedion, who was busy digging his sword into the commander’s side as a gentle reminder to keep moving. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your cousin.”

She knew Arobynn took in every detail as Aedion came closer, pushing his charge before him; trying to find any weakness, anything to use to his advantage. Aedion just continued into the house, the Valg commander stumbling across the threshold. “You’ve recovered well, General,” Arobynn said. “Or should I call you ‘Your Highness,’ in honor of your Ashryver lineage? Whichever you prefer, of course.”

She knew then that Arobynn had no plans to let the demon—and Stevan—leave this house alive.

Aedion gave Arobynn a lazy grin over his shoulder. “I don’t give a shit what you call me.” He shoved the Valg commander farther inside. “Just take this rutting thing off my hands.”

Arobynn smiled blandly, unfazed—he’d calculated Aedion’s hatred. With deliberate slowness, he turned to Rowan.

“You, I don’t know,” Arobynn mused, having to lift his head to see Rowan’s face. He made a show of looking Rowan over. “It’s been an age since I saw one of the Fae. I don’t remember them being quite so large.”

Rowan moved deeper into the entry hall, every step laced with power and death, coming to a stop at her side. “You can call me Rowan. That’s all you need to know.” He cocked his head to the side, a predator assessing prey. “Thank you for the oil,” he added. “My skin was a little dry.”

Arobynn blinked—as much surprise as he’d show.

It took her a moment to process what Rowan had said, and to realize that the almond smell hadn’t just been coming from her. He’d worn it, too.

Arobynn flicked his attention to Aedion and the Valg commander. “Third door on the left—take him downstairs. Use the fourth cell.”

Aelin didn’t dare look at her cousin as he dragged Stevan along. There was no sign of the other assassins—not even a servant. Whatever Arobynn had planned … he didn’t want any witnesses.

Arobynn trailed after Aedion, his hands in his pockets.

But Aelin remained in the hall for a moment, looking at Rowan.

His brows were high as she read the words in his eyes, his posture. He never specified that only you had to wear it.

Her throat tightened and she shook her head.

What? he seemed to ask.

You just … She shook her head again. Surprise me sometimes.

Good. I’d hate for you to get bored.

Despite herself, despite what was to come, a smile tugged on her lips as Rowan took her hand and gripped it tightly.

When she turned to head into the dungeons, her smile faded as she found Arobynn watching.

Rowan was about a hair’s breadth from ripping out the King of the Assassins’ throat as he led them down, down, down into the dungeons.

Rowan kept a step behind Aelin while they descended the long, curving stone staircase, the reek of mildew and blood and rust growing stronger with each step. He’d been tortured enough, and done enough torturing himself, to know what this place was.

To know what sort of training Aelin had received down here.

A girl—she’d been a girl when the red-haired bastard a few steps ahead had brought her here and taught her how to cut up men, how to keep them alive while she did it, how to make them scream and plead. How to end them.