~ Chapter 3: The Royal Rivals are Brothers ~

  “There, there, pretty boy.” Small but firm, the calloused hands ran through Nikolai’s hair. “Can’t handle a drink, can you?”

  He noticed the patchwork of jagged scars marring the skin. As he righted himself, the hand retreated.

  From his place on the floor, the lord glared, but the young woman merely chuckled, finding the response amusing. Brushing himself off, Nikolai returned back to his seat.

  “What a sight,” the maid’s lips quirked in mischief. “You fell off your chair in amazement and everything!”

  With a sigh, Nikolai grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his mouth. The weight of a curious gaze made him glance sideways, where he found the maid staring unabashedly.

  Meeting his gaze, she winked. Her amber eyes glowed with mirth.

  Nikolai faltered. What was wrong with her? He scooted back as much as he could… without falling backward. Again.

  The maid hummed happily. Leaning back, she twisted in her seat and raised both arms overhead, stretching them sideways. “Do not fear marriage, young lord. It is a natural order of the world.” She set both her elbows on the table. Leaning her chin against her hand, she peered at him with exaggerated innocence. “Surely, there must be someone you wish to marry? A lady of your choosing?”

  Nikolai cleared his throat. “I cannot say there is at the moment.” The admission left his lips before he could stop it. He froze. Why did he reveal that to her?

  “A pity then,” she mused, reaching up to adjust her veil. “Your future wife will be a fortunate woman.”

  Nikolai stilled, caught off guard by the unexpected sincerity. His usual sharp tongue abandoned him as he found himself grasping for words.

  “Your husband as well,” he offered lamely. However, he found it hard to picture any man daring and succeeding in pursuing the young woman. If anything, it would be the maid doing the picking and proposing, likely running circles around the fellow.

  “Ah, well, I am to be married to a fool,” murmured the maid. She rummaged through her pockets, searching for something. “But he is said to be a noble fool, and for that I am grateful.” She shot him an amused look as if letting him in on a great secret. Her smirk was sharp and knowing. “Wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”

  Nikolai tightened his grip on his jug before bringing it to his lips. “I suppose.” People in his position didn’t marry for affection. He would be lucky to find a political partner who would be civil and willing to follow him in his plans.

  “So, your general is marrying into Feldgrau?” The lord paused, voice lowering into a suggestive murmur, encouraging the other to divulge their secrets. “You must be very close to them to know such a secret.” His cold eyes pierced into her, studying every minute reaction, trying to decipher the mystery.

  The young woman’s eyes widened to an alarming degree. It was her turn to splutter. In a flurry of movement, she pushed away the drink and sprung to her feet. The veil that had been carefully draped over her face shifted, sliding just enough to reveal flushed cheeks.

  Nikolai stiffened. Had he pressed too far? His fingers curled around the jug, knuckles whitening.

  Hugging herself, the young woman looked horrified. “Was the marriage not common knowledge? I thought that’s what all the celebrations were for!” She rubbed her face and groaned loudly. The maid began to curse in another language. “I’m so stupid, of course, it was a secret!”

  Before Nikolai could react, a strong grip clamped down on his shoulders. He stared at the weird woman, questions brimming in his eyes.

  “Sir, we are acquaintances now, aren’t we?” The bright amber eyes stared down at him, fierce and bright.

  He could only offer a half-shrug. “I suppose so…” He leaned in ever so slightly, curiosity piqued. “Why do you ask?”

  The maid’s expression lit up with relief. She opened her mouth.

  “Hey! Who’s the one with the twenty-jugs of ale tab?”

  The moment shattered.

  Heads turned as the tavern owner stormed down the stairs, fury blazing in his eyes. “Who was it?” He barked.

  The barkeeper shivered, half in fear but still looking apologetic. He pointed at the maid.

  She gulped. Her fingers dived into her pockets, only to grasp at empty air.

  “Well, good sir,” the maid began smoothly, flashing a nervous grin. “It seems I am low on coin right now, but if you add it to my tab, I will-“

  “You think I run this establishment by letting everyone off with a tab?” the owner roared, raising a chubby fist in the air. He jabbed an accusing finger at the woman. “What type of scoundrel are you, trying to drink me out of my own house?”

  Although her shoulders were still set in a proud stance, the maid rubbed the back of her neck. She laughed sheepishly. “It was not my intention to do so, sir-”

  “Then pay!” roared the owner. “Now!”

  The entire establishment trembled from the force of it.

  The barkeeper murmured apologies behind his angry boss, but it was clearly no use. The owner looked ready to burst into flames.

  Nikolai exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  The furious man gestured towards the line of empty jugs line in front of the young woman.

  “Don’t just sit there!” He clenched his fists, frustration mounting. “Come on, I’m not the villain here! I want to go to the moon festival with my kids and you two fools are the last ones to leave!”

  The two, quite in sync, turned to look around. It was true. They were the last ones left.

  Nikolai pressed his fingers against his temples. “Sir, if you-”

  “Did you say it was the time of the moon festival?” interrupted the young woman. She stood abruptly. Her chart scraped noisily against the floor. For the first time since Nikolai met her, the young woman was dead serious. Her sharp tone held no room for argument.

  The barkeeper and owner exchanged uneasy glances at the sudden shift. A shiver ran down their spine. Gone was the playful mischief. It was like the maid had become an entirely different person.

  The owner hesitated, scratching the tip of his nose. “Well, yeah…” He glanced at the barkeeper for confirmation. “Even the palace banquet is set to start in half an hour.”

  The maid frowned. Her face took on a pale shade.

  Nikolai stilled. That was right. The royal banquet would be starting soon. No matter his current status, the Lord of Feldgrau was expected to attend. He could only hope Cristin had succeeded in buying him more time.

  A whisper suddenly brushed past his ears.

  “Dear acquaintance,” the maid murmured, sorrow lacing her voice. “ I’m afraid I’ll have to repay you one day.”

  Nikolai shifted to stare at her in confusion.

  Her amber eyes met his, unreadable. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

  Nikolai couldn’t help the unsettling feeling settling in his gut. What did she mean? Before he could even ask, the maid straightened. The silky white cloths of her attire whirled around like a regal cloak. The young woman strode forward, carrying a majestic and commanding air about her. She stalked forward with the confidence of someone accustomed to being feared and respected.

  It was the owner’s turn to gulp. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

  “This is what we shall do,” she announced.

  The three men in the bar looked at her wary, confused . What was she going to do?

  Nikolai’s eyes narrowed. He had only known her for barely an afternoon, and already he could recognize the glint in her eye. Trouble.

  The young maid placed a hand on her hip. Then, she pointed directly at Nikolai. “This man will take care of all my expenses.”

  With that, she waved a hand in the air, striding for the door. “Farewell!” She called behind her shoulder.

  She almost made it.

  A vice-like grip closed around her wrist.

  The maid stilled.

  Blue eyes locked onto hers. “What do you mean I’ll take care of it?” gritted out the young man. Deep lines formed on his face as he clenched his teeth in barely concealed irritation.

  To his utter disbelief, she merely smirked down at him. “You know what I mean.”

  With a flick of her wrist, she disarmed his hold in the blink of an eye, slipping past him with infuriating ease.

  Desperation flared in the lord’s chest. He needed the information on the general! Who decided the marriage? What was the queen planning? Nikolai reached forward, faster this time, and yanked. But she ducked at the last moment.

  Instead of catching her elbow, his fingers caught on the delicate strings of her veil.

  Time seemed to slow.

  The maid’s eyes widened, but even her reflexes weren’t fast enough.

  The fabric slipped free.

  For a moment, Nikolai stared dumbstruck.

  The unveiled face locked eyes with him, glaring angrily. Her face was like the dawn, fierce and unyielding. Her skin was kissed by the sun, and she had a stubborn and proud set to her jaw.

  The young lord froze…. But the maid did not.

  Bursting forward, she shoved him with impressive force.

  Nikolai staggered back, taken aback by her strength. His back crashed into the table. He grunted as the air was knocked out of him. The veil was ripped out of his grip.

  A loud slam echoed through the silent bar.

  She was gone.

  Nikolai gasped for breath.

  Through the window, he caught a glimpse of her retreating form. She was a furious whirlwind of silk and fury as she stormed off, vanishing into the night.

  Nikolai exhaled sharply, righting himself with a wince. Those were going to bruise. Suspicion nagged at him. Who was she? Iliana.

  Doubt coiled in his mind. How did a servant know about the general’s marriage when not even Nikolai’s men had been left clueless? His fingers twitched. His hand fell to the dagger concealed at his side. Why had the maid been so secretive about her face? Was she a noble? A relative?

  The information he had gathered, although vague, was of some use. Brushing himself off, he pulled himself up. Something big was about to happen. He could feel it. The general’s marriage to Feldgrau was no small matter. Especially if it was common knowledge within the Wenge delegation.

  He had to return to the castle. At once.

  “So,” a voice chirped, forcefully cheery. “For the tab, will that be in coins or silver?”

  Nikolai turned, pinning the owner and barkeeper with a stare so cold they flinched. The icy countenance bore no hint of the slight warmth from earlier.

  The two men shifted uncomfortably. “Or we can put it on your tab!” offered the owner hastily, rubbing his hands together.

  With measure silence, Nikolai reached into his coat. Pushing down his irritation, he tried to remind himself of their innocence. The lord tossed a pouch into the air.

  The owner caught the pouch easily. He fumbled with the heavy bag. Sucking in a breath, he couldn’t undo the straps fast enough.

  The owner paled, suddenly feeling faint. When the barkeeper tried to peer over his shoulder, the man shoved him away, hugging the pouch close to his chest. This was no simple payment. It was enough to buy his entire establishment. His knees buckled, tears of gratitude welling in his eyes.

  Who knew that today would be his lucky day?

  “Thank you, kind sir!” he called out to the young man exiting his bar. “A good Morning Day to you!”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  The young man didn’t so much as pause. With a loud slam, the door swung shut behind him.

  A thought suddenly struck the owner. He turned to the barkeeper, still stunned, “Who were they?”

  The barkeeper returned to cleaning his jugs. He had already thought better of wondering hours ago.

  “No idea, sir,” he shook his head. “No idea at all.”

  ━━━━━━━━ ? ?? ? ?? ? ?? ? ━━━━━━━━━━━━

  “Lord and Lady Langard!” called the royal announcer.

  The ball was teeming with noise and grandeur, a shimmering display of lavish nobility. Laughter and music swirled through the air as the scene of fine wines and candle wax thickened the atmosphere. For one night, the most esteemed guests in the entire kingdom were in attendance. Even the servants were sporting small smiles, sneaking morsels of leftover delicacies and tapping their feet to the festive rhythms.

  Among all the splendor, there was one soul who was having possibly the worst time of their life. He stood rigidly separate from the crowd. The food he shoved into his mouth did nothing to mask his mounting frustration.

  Cristin cursed his absent lord under his breath. Where was he? With a carefully controlled expression, he set down his plate. Clasping his hands tightly behind his back, he nodded stiffly to a random lord and a offered a forced smile to a lady fluttering her pink fan.

  He was a soldier’s son.

  Despite the facade he played, Cristin wanted nothing more than to spit on the next lord who tried to pass false pleasantries with him. The false airs and arrogance of the nobility and ministers rubbed him in the wrong way. Every false pleasantry and exaggerated compliment made his skin crawl, or maybe it was the stuffy attire he had been forced to wear. He was so uncomfortable.

  I’m not supposed to be here, he thought as he stared up at the giant ice sculpture that had just been wheeled in. The crowd of fawning aristocrats made him sigh in dismay.

  These people are idiots, he thought. He watched as lords and ladies preened over each other’s attire, despite their wide smiles, each was trying to prove they were the best. He tried to imagine his liege growing around these smiling aristocrats with his infamous blank expression, trapped in the meaningless games that meant everything to those in the capital. No wonder the lord was so sharp. He had to be. Every sweet phrase was a test, dangling bait, waiting for their opponent to fall into the perfectly set trap.

  “Lord Cristin!”

  The voice rang out through the entire room, smoother and poised.

  Cristin immediately plastered on a smile and shoved down his discomfort. He turned and bowed deeply to the approaching figure. Taking the offered gloved hand, Cristin pressed a chaste kiss to the dark silk.

  "You may rise, good sir," said the voice. It was said with something bordering between amusement and disdain.

  Cristin straightened. But the man wisely kept his eyes down, respectfully lowering his head.

  Anything out of place or decorum would be been seen as a slight against the person standing before him.

  Through the years, the attendant had followed his lord to enough gatherings and noble travels to gather a semblance of understanding of the unspoken rules of royal rules and noble etiquette.

  “Your Majesty,” Cristin smiled without feeling. “What can this humble one do for you?"

  A low chuckle. “Oh, you can drop the formalities. I insist.”

  Cristin hesitated. Finally, he nodded shortly and lifted his gaze.

  Before him stood a woman, tall and gaunt. She was adorned in a dark velvet gown as black as the night sky with red rubies embroidered into the cascading folds. The high collar framed her sharp face where beady eyes, dark and watchful, bored into him.

  It was none other than Queen Rewanna.

  “I don’t wish to take you away from the festivities.” The woman clasped her bony hands together. The silver tiara in her hair glistened, reflecting the candlelight in the ballroom. "But please answer this one question for me."

  “And I will do my best to answer.” Cristin’s hands curled behind his back, hidden from view. His voice was calm and dutiful, the perfect picture of a loyal servant. “What is it you wish to know, Your Majesty?”

  He couldn’t stop the hairs from rising on the back of his neck, prickling with unease. They had met before briefly when duty had forced his lord and the queen into the same meeting room in a powerful ministers’ home. He was surprised she remembered him and unnerved by the fact that she knew him by name. Unlike before, here in the capital, they were fully within the queen’s domain.

  Queen Rewana, the Lady of Eburean.

  The mother of the kingdom stared cooly at the soldier's son-turned-noble. Cristin knew she viewed his rise in position with distaste.

  "Where is my son?" She stepped forward. The height of her heels allowed her to stand at eye level with Cristin. She stared down at him. “Where is the Lord of Feldgrau?"

  Around them, the conversation died down as the crowd of nobles strained their ears to listen. The lords and ladies leaned in, their words hushing as they turned their attention to the two.

  To everyone else, the right-hand man of the second prince was well at ease. “Not to worry, Your Majesty,” he chuckled good-naturedly. "My liege is merely preparing himself after the long travel. Although he is late, the lord will be here shortly."

  His voice carried easily, filling the vast ballroom. It was impossible to ignore. Even the announcer paused in

  “And, of course, the fault lies with this lowly one for not informing you sooner.” Cristin’s polite smile widened. He leaned in as if to whisper, but his words echoed in the giant ballroom.

  “But I knew a caring mother such as yourself wouldn’t deprive her son of well-earned rest,” he smiled, an unspoken emotion gleaming in his eyes. “Truly, Your Majesty, it is admirable how you treat my lord as if he were your own flesh and blood. I can only hope everyone was as magnanimous as you.”

  “Of… course,” Queen Rewanna froze imperceptibly.

  But Cristin caught it.

  The slight tightening of her jaw and the flash of anger in her eyes were telling enough. Cristin held back his smirk.

  The queen wielded her title as Mother of the Kingdom like a weapon, using it to control those around her, including the Ice Prince, who was her son in technicality. The price of that power was a facade that she could not afford to let slip. She couldn’t afford to appear unmotherly, especially not at such an event where all eyes would be on the royal family.

  Her smile twitched. Leaning close to glare down at Cristin, the caring, maternal facade crumpled. “Bring your lord to me the moment he arrives, boy."

  She did not wait for a response, turning on her heel in a swirl of dark velvet. Her dark dress billowed in her wake as she strode away.

  Cristin held his breath until she was halfway across the banquet hall. Leaning against a nearby table, he exhaled noisily. “By the gods,” he groaned.

  At least he had bought some more time. For now. His eyes shot to the grand entrance, silently praying that his lord would suddenly appear. But, the doors remained stubbornly shut. “Damn it.”

  His gaze drifted over to the banquet table. It was filled with an assortment of roasted meats and the spiced pastries beckoned him froward. His stomach protested, it was already so full! But… the stress won out, winning over his common sense. He took a step in the table’s direction, fingers already reaching for a plate.

  "What's this about my elder brother?” A voice, thick with arrogance, soured the pleasant atmosphere.

  Cristin stiffened, muscles tensing as his body instinctively locked into fight or flight mode. “Argan,” he growled under his breath.

  “How dare he be late to my ball?" The cocky voice cut through the crowded ballroom. Each word dripped with entitlement. The person clearly expected the world to fall at their feet… and to be thanked for gracing the room with their presence. There was a loud, exaggerated sigh, “Leave it to Nikolai to be so shameless. Such a disgrace to our family.”

  Cristin’s fists clenched as his eyes narrowed. His entire frame trembled. But no one took notice, too entirely focused on the figure descending the grand staircase.

  Prince Argan.

  Crown prince, some whispered. Either ways, he was the current Heir to the Eburean throne.

  A hush fell over the crowd. All eyes turned to watch as the third prince strut down the stairs, clad in a dark emerald suit, the coat tailored to absolute perfection. Two round diamonds made up his cufflinks, while the buttons were formed of pure gold. He looked every bit the royal prince he was.

  “My son,” Queen Rewanna held a hand to her face, hiding a devious smile under it. “You are as handsome as your father was in his youth.”

  Cristin clenched his jaw as the young prince surveyed the room. The prince’s expression was alight with smug amusement.

  The grand staircase was reserved for royal entrances. The boy was barely on the cusp of manhood, teetering on the last year of his childhood, but he had taken his place atop it as though he were already crowned king.

  Still, no one dared to say anything. After the end of the year, the prince would be eligible to take over the throne from his father.

  Cristin’s blood ran cold. It suddenly made sense.

  So this was why Nikolai had returned to the capital.

  “For years,” sneered Argan, “my brother has rudely declined our invitation, and yet, now that he has accepted, he has the gall to not show up?” Argan was overly loud, projecting so as to ensure he was heard by everyone.

  Not that it was hard.

  The entire ballroom was eerily silent. No one was bold enough to agree or disagree with the future king’s statement. Especially not with the queen presiding over everything like a protective vulture.

  “Perhaps the rumors are true. The vile borderlands have robbed him of the little intelligence he had left,” laughed the prince like it was some grand joke.

  Cristin’s eyes flashed. His fists tightened, and his nails dug into his palms.

  How dare he-

  Cristin was not a man prone to rash action. But a rush of anger burst through his veins. Still, he had enough self-control to stay put. He was more than aware of the royal guards stationed at every corner. His spies had sent more than accurate reports. If he started something now, it would only end in his immediate execution. It would inconvenience the lord if he died so pitifully. The loyal attendant could only lower his head to hide the hate burning in his eyes.

  Unfortunately, this action caught the arrogant prince’s attention.

  Argan extended a lazy hand, pointing directly at Cristin. “You there!” His wicked smirk curled. "My brother's servant.”

  The nobles around Cristin slowly backed away.

  “Yes?” Cristin gritted his teeth. He didn’t bother adding any honorifics.

  “Answer my lady mother's question at once.” Argan’s voice dipped low. “Where is the Lord of Feldgrau?"

  Cristin inhaled shakily, steadying his voice. “I’m afraid he is not here yet.” He clasped in front, bowing low. “As I was informing the queen, the Lord of Feldgrau had a long-“

  “Did I ask you to make excuses for my pathetic brother?” barked the prince, snarling like a rabid dog. “He is hiding, isn’t he? Like a coward.”

  He descended the staircase in measured, deliberate steps. Each toss of his perfectly combed head was done with performative authority. The crowd easily parted for him, not wishing to get in the way.

  The perpetual sneer twisting the boy’s face made Cristin’s fingers twitch with the urge to break his nose. Argan could have been handsome. But any attractive feature he possessed was overshadowed by the disdainful glint in his eye.

  Cristin dropped to his knees. “Apologies, Your Highness”

  “It’s Your Royal Highness,” fumed the prince, the words rolling off his tongue with indulgent amusement. Crossing his arms, the boy reveled in the power of making a grown man kneel before him. The fact that Cristin worked under the Lord of Feldgrau only added to that pleasure.

  The prince had the same sharp nose, and the same high forehead as his brother, but where Nikolai commanded silent respect, Argan wielded only cruelty, too weak and foolish to rely on his own merits.

  Under Nikolai’s cold countenance hid a caring and deeply loyal heart for those he considered under his care. His intelligence was wielded practically as he disarmed his enemies before blood could be shed. Cristin’s lord was a man whose actions spoke louder than his quiet words, someone who had the desire and ability to make the lives of his people better.

  Bowing his head, the attendant remained silent. The prince could posture as much as he wanted to, but he would never measure up to his older brother.

  People followed Nikolai because they wanted to.

  They followed Argan because they had no choice.

  The ballroom remained tense as no one dared to intervene but watched eagerly.

  Argan let out a sigh, dramatically wistful. “My father has always upheld the values of tradition,” he mused. “If he weren’t bedridden, father would have punished my brother for such blatant tardiness.”

  His gaze flicked back down to Cristin, an idea gleaming in his eye.

  “But alas,” he continued, “since both my father and brother are not in attendance, it falls to me to uphold such traditions.” His smirk grew stretching into something far more dangerous.

  “Nikolai is not present,” Argan noted brightly. “I suppose it falls to his servant to take the punishment in his stead.”

  A ripple of discomfort passed through the crowd. The lord and ladies shifted uncomfortably. Their grips tightened on their goblets. They averted their gazes suddenly finding their fans and jewelry more interesting.

  Still kneeling, Crisitn’s mind raced. This was going to get ugly.

  Argan studied him. Rubbing his chin, his eyes lit up with a sudden, wicked thought.

  “However, I am a gracious prince,” he announced as if contemplating a great and generous solution. “I could release you of this duty… if you were to pledge yourself to me instead.”

  He grinned, eyes bright with self-satisfaction. “If you’re not my brother’s man, you bear no obligation to take his punishment. That’s fair, isn’t it?” Argan turned to the room, those who dared to meet his eyes nodded jerkily, trying for smiles. Scattered murmurs of approval followed, hoping to appease the prince.

  Beyond them, unnoticed in the unfurling drama, a new presence entered the ballroom.

  The new group were entirely adorned in elegant white and they stopped abruptly at their leader’s command. Their leader stood at the forefront, holding a silent hand up to halt them. A red flowing cape was draped on their shoulders, a contrast to the black and gold robe they wore. A golden mask, carved into the shape of a raven-head covered the top of their face. Dagger-sharp feathers etched the edge of the mask, spanning out above their head like the edges of a crown.

  They moved like ghosts, silent and observing.

  The royal announcer’s eyes had been so glued to the dramatic scene unfolding before him that he failed to notice their entrance. By the time he glanced up, the masked figure pressed a finger to their lips, a noiseless command for silence. Their own gaze was fixed on the Crown Prince and the kneeling servant with rapt attention.

  Oblivious to the new arrivals, Argan reveled in the power, heady over the ability to make his brother’s servant kneel before him, of holding the fate of a man in his hands.

  The weight of expectation hung heavy in the air.

  Would he cry or beg? Surely, the attendant would cower before the heir to the throne.

  But to the crowd’s surprise, the man kneeling on the ground did none of those things.

  A sound, quiet at first, the growing, cut through the silence.

  The nearby lord flinched. Was that…

  Low, amused laughter.

  The chuckle grew into a full-blown manic laugh.

  Queen Rewanna’s lips pressed into a thin line. She slammed her goblet down, expression darkening.

  Cristin’s shoulders shook. Tossing his head in the air, he snorted loudly. Did this brat truly think mere words were enough to break him?

  Lifting his eyes to meet the prince’s, he relished in the flash of uncertainty that passed through the boy’s eyes.

  Cristin shrugged, “Do what you will, prince.” The words dripped with thinly veiled derision.

  Behind the title and expensively embroidered jewels, Argan was nothing more than a child terrified of never measuring up to his brother.

  The flicker of fury and uncertainty that crossed the prince’s face was almost too satisfying. “What did you say?” Gritted the boy through his clenched teeth.

  “Do what you will,” repeated the man. With a quiet finality, Cristin spoke without a single waver of doubt.

  “My loyalty is to the Lord of Feldgrau.”

  The entire room seemed to hold their breath. The silence was struck with awe.

  A raw scream tore through the air, crackling with rage.

  “How dare you!”

  Fury bled into his eyes as the boy charged.

  In a flash, he grabbed the nearest guard’s sword.

  Gasps echoed through the banquet hall. Nobles stumbled back with screams.

  Steel flashed in the ballroom’s soft golden light, as the crown prince attacked.

  The masked figure tilted their head, watching with keen, unblinking interest.

  Stalking forward with the blade, Argan’s expression was filled with nothing but pure hatred.

  “Die,” he snarled quietly and aimed the blade directly at Cristin’s defiant heart.