Viva La Vida

Part 10

   Liam hesitates, suddenly over analyzing Zayn's every move, suddenly wondering what the hell could be behind that door. Zayn raises an eyebrow at him.

"Any time now."

He takes a deep breath, terrible aware of the fact that everything could be different from this moment on—that he could go home and never come back here, that he could die, that anything could happen—and walks through the door. He does not look back at Zayn or Harry who walk behind him, because in front of him is the man who decided to take a country apart at its already ripping seams.

Azoff.

Liam doesn't remember what he'd looked like all those years ago when he'd broken into the palace with Zayn's dad, but the man before him is a far call from the image he'd built around the voice from his dreams. He's old—much older than Liam had expected—and tired looking, with smile lines around his eyes and large calloused hands he keeps folded neatly on the table in front of him. He's hardly the sort of man you'd expect to incite political uproar in an age-old monarchy—he looks more like a well-groomed grandpa—but there's something hard and almost cruel around his mouth when Liam looks closer than tells him this is not a man to be trifled with.

Liam is broken out of his inspection by the sound of the door slamming behind him; he glances back to see Zayn taking a seat at the round, company-meeting style table Azoff is sitting at, and Harry following his example. Liam slowly does the same, resting his forearms on the table in mimicry of Azoff's position.

"Your Highness. What a pleasure to meet again."

"The pleasure's all yours, I'm sure," Liam says dryly. Azoff wants to play this game court-style, apparently. Well, if he thinks he has more passive-aggressive comebacks, ill-intentioned compliments, and subtle threats in him than Liam does, he's sorely mistaken. Liam's been playing this game since birth.

"We shall see about that," Azoff says calmly. "I trust you've been comfortable staying with us? I expressly gave orders for you to be treated gently."

"I've been treated acceptably, I'd say," Liam says, leaning back in his seat, stance open and arrogant. "Some have been kinder than others. But my treatment here isn't what we came to talk about, is it?"

"Well, we shall see about that," Azoff repeats. "I think your treatment here is very relevant indeed. But what would you like to discuss, then, Your Highness, if not our hospitality?"

"Why's His Grace here?" Liam asks bluntly. It wasn't what he'd meant to start off with, but it's as relevant a question as any. "I doubt you needed him for more leverage after you already had me."

"Do you mean why he is in this meeting, or why we took him in the first place?"

Question for a question. Liam can play this game just fine. "I think you know."

Azoff inclines his head. "I owe Duke Styles' charming mother a favor. She was once very kind to my family, and I needed to repay her."

"You have a funny notion of repayment," Liam says coldly, "if you consider stealing a woman's only son from her a favor."

"You don't understand. That's to be expected; I hardly expect you to be up to date on current events while you're in a glorified prison—"

"—trust me, it's not that glorified—"

"—but we are almost at London." Azoff studies Liam for a reaction. "Most of the nobles are leaving the capital for the summer in a few months. When that happens, the rebels will take the city, and it will not be pretty. I wanted to spare Duchess Styles the risk of having her son slaughtered in the coup. So yes, we took him as well as you." He shrugs expressively. "Say of me what you will, Liam, but I'm a man who pays his debts. What greater favor can you grant than life itself? The lady will be overjoyed to have her son in one piece after this summer."