Shadow Touched

2. FINCH

My eyes scan the room with hawk-like precision. Receiving days pose some of the greatest risks each week to the King. With the castle gates down and the doors open, any Atheccan with a request—or grudge—can walk through the door to make their demands and displeasure known. This also means it's much easier for a disgruntled Lord, with his guards in tow, to burst through the door to challenge the King. Or, an assassin dressed as a peasant could sneak in and make a play to take out His Majesty. Receiving days require I be at my most vigilant.

As Captain of the Guard, I could assign someone else to oversee the crew I hand-picked to guard the King, but it's good for my men to see me take on active duty. There's nothing worse than being led by a soldier unwilling to step into the trenches with those he leads.

I bring my eyes back to the dais. The King, dressed in the royal livery—a dark, forest green tunic, with black as-night trousers—sits on his throne—a big, ugly chair covered in blood-red velvet and lined with Veridian gold. The throne to his right sits empty; Prince Greyling is nowhere in sight. This is a big day for the King. He's set to announce the Royal Jubilee at the end of the Receiving. Grey knows this. Yet, running late seems to be a thing he can't help anymore.

I prepared to signal one of my men to take over so I can discreetly exit the room to search for Grey, when in he waltzed, Llew, the Herald, scrambles to announce his arrival.

"Prince Greyling of House Valderre!"

Grey enters the room completely unbothered. He sports high leather boots that emphasize the muscle in his calves and a black velvet coat perfectly tailored to his form.

His blue eyes and patrician features—square jaw, straight nose—mark him as King Vincent's son. His blonde hair, with its golden hues so like his father's, is tied back with a piece of soft leather, giving him a roguish look.

He keeps it long out of spite. He knows the King finds it unseemly, un-prince-like. For Grey, it's his own form of protest, his one way to remind himself that, yes, he has free will. It doesn't hurt that, along with making his father's blood boil, it also makes women swoon.

I catch the moment the King's eyes lock on those of his son's. His displeasure clear as his mouth becomes a tight slash across his face.

Grey catches it, too. Yet, he continues his nonchalant walks up the aisle. I know inside he's fighting a battle between not caring one bit that he's late and that boyhood fear of one's father a man never entirely escapes.

His eyes turn from his father, taking in the room, and finally, momentarily, they land on me. I'm sure my green eyes shine with mirth as my lips quirk upward for the briefest moment as if to say, late again, Prince Greyling. Tut. Tut.

He narrows his gaze at me. He knows I'll be ribbing him about this later.

Ignoring his father's glare, he takes his time. He stops here and there to greet courtiers who line either side of the aisle. He drops his shoulders and lets his steps linger.

The nobles eat it up. Particularly the ladies. When he catches the eye of Lady Serephena I can't help raise an eyebrow.

As beautiful as she is insufferable, she bats her eyes at the Prince. Her long, strawberry-blonde hair is piled high on her head. Ringlets fall artfully, perfectly framing her face. Her light brown eyes glitter with knowing. I happen to know Grey hates the woman with a burning passion. No matter. He flashes her a big smile and follows it with a wink. Lord Worthington—her recently announced fiancé—scowls.

The moment lasts only a few seconds, yet it's enough to make the crowd forget he's late. When the Receiving ends, everyone will be talking about this interaction and its scandalous nature.