When I startled at the sound, Ambrose’s lips thinned. “You’ve clipped my wings, boy. You can’t mean to tell me that you didn’t know it’d be the consequence of me failing to guard the beasts?”
“Do you see me smiling?” I snarled. “And how about you stop calling them beasts and me boy, Prince Ambrose.”
Ambrose’s lips curled. “Aye, right. About the time that you remember to call me professor and bring back a dragon for Lysander’s missing one.”
“That’ll be never then.”
Ambrose huffed out a frustrated breath. “It’s time for training.”
He snapped his boots together and turned on the spot, before marching around the stables.
I cringed, however, when I finally saw the punishment to Ambrose’s wings because of my rescue effort. Iron chains had been looped from their delicate golden tips to the base of his shoulders. At their ends, they were clamped into the sensitive skin. At each step, the chains moved, searing his wings.
I’d seen in the Conqueror Gym how even a small touch from iron hurt a fae. Why wasn’t Ambrose hollering in pain? Yet his shoulders were stiff with it; I guessed that his pride stopped him revealing the truth…or was he protecting me from it, after all?
I stroked my thumb over Mist’s back, pushing him deeper into my pocket. “Stay down, Junior. This is familiar training as well, and I’d rather feed my dick to a troll than let you get pulled into that.”
Magenta clasped my hand, pulling me after Ambrose. Her eyes twinkled. “Flair and Echo mysteriously developed headaches this morning, poor things. They needed nest rest. Such a shame that they’ll also have to miss this.”
Dad would love Magenta.
When Magenta and I strolled after Ambrose into the yard in front of the stables that curled with smoke, which stung my nostrils, my eyes narrowed at the Princes’ corner. On their side of the yard, bridles, saddles, spurs, and every other tool to dominate another creature lay spread out. Willoughby knelt crouched over them, carefully checking and polishing each one. Lysander stood watching him, tapping a leather riding crop against his thigh impatiently.
Bask stood — alone — in the Immortals’ corner, which was opposite the Princes, below the stable block. I rushed to him because I knew now that it didn’t matter what I had inside me or how bad I felt. Bask was my friend and he loved me.
Omens and runes, I swore that I wouldn’t hurt him.
I swept my arms as close to Bask as I could without touching him, and he drew in such a deep breath that it was like he was trying to inhale me. He was pale, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. Magenta had been right: it looked like I’d been kicking him in the balls since SHP.
I grinned, kissing the air over Bask’s cheeks and nose. “Have I told you that you please me, even when I’m acting like an asshole?”
Instantly, the pained look cleared from Bask’s face.
“Have I told you that you that to please me, you don’t have to stop being an asshole, you just have to not ignore me?”
“Someone taught me a firm lesson.”
Bask’s face lit up. “That must’ve been a fine sight.”
“If you rascals are finished flirting on my time,” Ambrose snapped his whip on the ground between us, and we jumped apart, “let’s get started. Lessons will be ground based to start with, until I can work out—”
“How we manage without my dragon?” Lysander drawled.
Ambrose’s brow furrowed, as he stalked towards Lysander. I expected Lysander to back away, but instead, he haughtily stared down the professor. It was strange to see the two fae together. Golden hair mixed with emerald in a sparkling waterfall. Yet in other ways, they were so alike. The Seelie and Unseelie were enemies outside the academy, and the princes weren’t BFFs inside, either.
“Something to say, boy? I’m giving you this one chance only, and then your Unseelie arse will show me the proper respect owed to my position.” Ambrose pressed the butt of the whip underneath Lysander’s chin, and Lysander’s jaw clenched. With the way that his hand tightened around the riding crop, I thought for a moment that he’d slash it across Ambrose’s cheek in retaliation. “We both know that I can punish creatively.”
Willoughby had paused in his polishing. His hand clawed the saddle like he dared not let go.
“One is more than aware of your creativity, just like all Seelie.” Lysander’s voice shook, but he held himself with the same poise as if he and Ambrose were dancing. “Are your wings sore? It must smart.”
Next to me, Magenta stiffened, as Ambrose drew back his hand as if to slap Lysander but then, he stopped himself.
“Aye, it smarts. We must all suffer if we fail.” Ambrose pushed away from Lysander, glancing between us. “You should remember that. This isn’t a game. Your decisions will lead to rewards or punishments.”
“Your decision,” Lysander accused, “led to my personal dragon escaping.”
Ambrose’s expression softened. “Ask yourself why he ran from you. If you’d treated him with even a wee bit of kindness—”
“Are we talking about a dragon or my boyfriend?” Lysander arched his brow.
Ambrose snorted. “I pity both. Now I have to get all of your daft arses ready for the Dragon Polo Tournament on Saturday, when the Rebel Cup will be presented. Have you even ridden on a dragon before, lass?”
Magenta shook her head.
Ambrose fluttered his wings in agitation, and then couldn’t hide the gasp of pain. When I glanced at Willoughby, he’d paled.
Ambrose kicked a snowbank. “A non-rider and only four dragons, which is why the whipping boys aren’t riding. Drain the gold from my wings now, Damelza will have my hide.”
“And my dragon…?” Lysander asked with fake sweetness.
“You’ll have Hector’s dragon: Rayn.” Ambrose strode to the stall to unlatch it, but Bask darted to him, scrabbling at his hands.
“If it pleases you, no, no, no…” Bask begged.
Ambrose froze, staring at Bask in shock. His voice was softer than I’d expected, “Enough of that. Hector’s gone, lad, and that’s just the way of it in this place. You can’t hold onto his ghost, and I can’t keep Rayn in retirement any longer like a memorial to him. Do you know how many I lost? All of my friends. But I’m still here, right? You have to become stronger; I know you can.”
Huh, that’d almost been inspiring. Plus, fae needed touch and love like incubi. If Ambrose was alone, how did he cope? I’d never considered how hard it must be for Lysander before. Weirdly, I was glad that he had Willoughby, however twisted the Princes were.
“My royal personage doesn’t need Rayn.” Wait, why was Lysander studying me like that? “One is inclined to saddle up a far more interesting beast.”
And I’d just been feeling sorry for the bastard.
“You’d better not complete that sentence, twinkle wings,” I growled.
Lysander swaggered towards me, swinging the crop loosely in his hand. “You son of a bitch…”
I blinked at him. He hadn’t even sounded like he’d meant that.
Ambrose was watching us in confusion. “Apologize, so your daft selves can start this lesson.”
Lysander swept me a mocking bow. “My deepest apologies. Of course, what I should’ve said was: You son of a mare.”
Silence.
I froze, reddening with humiliation. My hands curled into fists. My heart beat too rapidly in my chest. Lightheaded, it was only Magenta’s hand on my shoulder that brought everything back into focus.