Aelin clicked her tongue. “All I’ve heard from your mouth these past few days is Prince Rowan this and Prince Rowan that, and yet this is what you decide to say to him? No bowing and scraping?”
Aedion slid back into his chair. “If Prince Rowan wants formalities, I can grovel, but he doesn’t look like someone who particularly cares.”
With a flicker of amusement in his green eyes, the Fae Prince said, “Whatever my queen wants.”
Oh, please.
Aedion caught the words, too. My queen.
The two princes stared at each other, one gold and one silver, one her twin and one her soul-bonded. There was nothing friendly in the stares, nothing human—two Fae males locked in some unspoken dominance battle.
She leaned against the sink. “If you’re going to have a pissing contest, can you at least do it on the roof?”
Rowan looked at her, brows high. But it was Aedion who said, “She says we’re no better than dogs, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she actually believes we’d piss on her furniture.”
Rowan didn’t smile, though, as he tilted his head to the side and sniffed.
“Aedion needs a bath, too, I know,” she said. “He insisted on smoking a pipe at the taproom. He said it gave him an air of dignity.”
Rowan’s head was still angled as he asked, “Your mothers were cousins, Prince, but who sired you?”
Aedion lounged in his chair. “Does it matter?”
“Do you know?” Rowan pressed.
Aedion shrugged. “She never told me—or anyone.”
“I’m guessing you have some idea?” Aelin asked.
Rowan said, “He doesn’t look familiar to you?”
“He looks like me.”
“Yes, but—” He sighed. “You met his father. A few weeks ago. Gavriel.”
Aedion stared at the shirtless warrior, wondering if he’d strained his injuries too much tonight and was now hallucinating.
The prince’s words sank in. Aedion just kept staring. A wicked tattoo in the Old Language stretched down the side of Rowan’s face and along his neck, shoulder, and muscled arm. Most people would take one look at that tattoo and run in the other direction.
Aedion had seen plenty of warriors in his day, but this male was a Warrior—law unto himself.
Just like Gavriel. Or so the legends claimed.
Gavriel, Rowan’s friend, one of his cadre, whose other form was a mountain lion.
“He asked me,” Aelin murmured. “He asked me how old I was, and seemed relieved when I said nineteen.”
Nineteen was too young, apparently, to be Gavriel’s daughter, though she looked so similar to the woman he’d once bedded. Aedion didn’t remember his mother well; his last memories were of a gaunt, gray face as she sighed her final breath. As she refused the Fae healers who could have cured the wasting sickness in her. But he had heard she’d once looked almost identical to Aelin and her mother, Evalin.
Aedion’s voice was hoarse as he asked, “The Lion is my father?”
A nod from Rowan.
“Does he know?”
“I bet seeing Aelin was the first time he wondered if he’d sired a child with your mother. He probably still doesn’t have any idea, unless that prompted him to start looking.”
His mother had never told anyone—anyone but Evalin—who his father was. Even when she was dying, she’d kept it to herself. She’d refused those Fae healers because of it.
Because they might identify him—and if Gavriel knew he had a son … If Maeve knew …
An old ache ripped through him. She’d kept him safe—had died to keep him out of Maeve’s hands.
Warm fingers slid around his hand and squeezed. He hadn’t realized how cold he was.
Aelin’s eyes—their eyes, the eyes of their mothers—were soft. Open. “This changes nothing,” she said. “About who you are, what you mean to me. Nothing.”
But it did. It changed everything. Explained everything: the strength, the speed, the senses; the lethal, predatory instincts he’d always struggled to keep in check. Why Rhoe had been so hard on him during his training.
Because if Evalin knew who his father was, then Rhoe certainly did, too. And Fae males, even half-Fae males, were deadly. Without the control Rhoe and his lords had drilled into him from an early age, without the focus … They’d known. And kept it from him.
Along with the fact that after he swore the blood oath to Aelin one day … he might very well remain young while she grew old and died.
Aelin brushed her thumb against the back of his hand, and then pivoted toward Rowan. “What does this mean where Maeve is concerned? Gavriel is bound through the blood oath, so would she have a claim on his offspring?”
“Like hell she does,” Aedion said. If Maeve tried to claim him, he’d rip out her throat. His mother had died for fear of the Fae Queen. He knew it in his bones.
Rowan said, “I don’t know. Even if she thought so, it would be an act of war to steal Aedion from you.”
“This information doesn’t leave this room,” Aelin said. Calm. Calculating—already sorting through every plan. The other side of their fair coin. “It’s ultimately your choice, Aedion, whether to approach Gavriel. But we have enough enemies gathering around us as it is. I don’t need to start a war with Maeve.”
But she would. She would go to war for him. He saw it in her eyes.
It nearly knocked the breath from him. Along with the thought of what the carnage would be like on both sides, if the Dark Queen and the heir of Mala Fire-Bringer collided.
“It stays with us,” Aedion managed to say. He could feel Rowan assessing and weighing him and bit back a snarl. Slowly, Aedion lifted his gaze to meet the prince’s.
The sheer dominance in that stare was like being hit in the face with a stone.
Aedion held it. Like hell he’d back down; like hell he’d yield. And there would be a yielding—somewhere, at some point. Probably when Aedion took that blood oath.
Aelin clicked her tongue at Rowan. “Stop doing that alpha-male nonsense. Once was enough.”
Rowan didn’t so much as blink. “I’m not doing anything.” But the prince’s mouth quirked into a smile, as if saying to Aedion, You think you can take me, cub?
Aedion grinned. Any place, any time, Prince.
Aelin muttered, “Insufferable,” and gave Rowan a playful shove in the arm. He didn’t move an inch. “Are you actually going to get into a pissing contest with every person we meet? Because if that’s the case, then it’ll take us an hour just to make it down one block of this city, and I doubt the residents will be particularly happy.”
Aedion fought the urge to take a deep breath as Rowan broke his stare to give their queen an incredulous look.
She crossed her arms, waiting.
“It’ll take time to adjust to a new dynamic,” Rowan admitted. Not an apology, but from what Aelin had told him, Rowan didn’t often bother with such things. She looked downright shocked by the small concession, actually.
Aedion tried to lounge in his chair, but his muscles were taut, his blood thrumming in his veins. He found himself saying to the prince, “Aelin never said anything about sending for you.”
“Does she answer to you, General?” A dangerous, quiet question. Aedion knew that when males like Rowan spoke softly, it usually meant violence and death were on their way.