Fourteen

                                    

                                          
A shrill scream invades my sleep, and I bolt upright, scanning the room. Everything around me is quiet and set in dusty blue shadows. My eyes feel like lead, and my mind is groggy, primed to play tricks on me. I sink back down on the pillows and pull the blankets over my shoulder. 
I found it hard to fall asleep after my confrontation with Kyron and Zek. The moments I spent nestled in the hallway alcove with the prince are tainted with self-doubt. I should have fortified my emotions for Kyron, pushed them deep inside and never given into my desire. I didn't regret having sex with him; how could I when it was exactly what my body needed? Our moment of angry passion felt spectacular, yet it blew a gaping hole in my defenses. I will have one hell of a time keeping him at bay.
My troubles with Zek were less complicated. I'd acted like a royal bitch. He was doing his job, even if it felt invasive. Watching over me can't be easy. I don't comply with the rules very well, and Micah requires constant updates. I shouldn't have come down on him so hard, and it's a blunder I need to rectify as soon as possible. 
Another ear-piercing scream jars me from my thoughts.
I bolt out of the bed with my heart hammering against my chest. My hands shake as I grab my robe and tie it around my waist. Doors open and slam closed, and hasty footsteps pound down the hallway. I rush out the door and more screams and gasps echo from the lower level of the palace. My legs move of their own accord, hurrying down the stairs until I'm short of walking into the foyer.
"Raelle, no," my father says, pulling me into his arms and burying my face to his chest. But it's too late. I press my palm to my still heart and fight against my gag reflex. The ghastly image seared into my brain will forever reside there. 
Hanging above the palace entrance is Lance. His arms are pinned to the wall with knives through his wrists and a sword impaled in his broad chest. Blood trickles down his cheeks where something has pecked out his eyes, leaving black holes in his head. But most disturbing are the words arching over his head and written in his blood. 
Pliris is Ours.
I grip my father's shirt and breathe in cinnamon and what I can only describe as his power, courage, and love for me. The familiar scents ease my nerves and give me the strength to pull away. I fight the urge to look again and concentrate on my father's face.
"You should go back to your room." He motions Zek over, but I shake my head. 
"No, Papa. I need to stay."
My father hesitates for a moment, torn between protecting me and understanding my call to duty. He nods and pulls me in closer to his side—a compromise with the warring emotions found in his russet gaze.
The unsettling feeling of someone watching me raises the hair on the back of my neck. I look over my shoulder to find Kyron with his eyes fixated on me. His hair is a rumpled mess and the ties of his tunic hang loose, giving me a glimpse of his smooth chest. Sadness and regret cloud his dark gaze, and I have the overwhelming desire to pull him into my arms. Instead, I reach back and graze my fingers over his. He laces our hands together and brushes his thumb over my knuckles. I hope it's enough to comfort him. 
Esmeray pushes through the crowd; her sheer black robe with fur trim billowing behind her. She stops short of the arched entrance, glaring up at Lance and shaking her head. "Whose responsibility was it to guard the foyer?"
A warrior with ample curves and dark mahogany curls steps forward. "It was mine, Your Majesty. I'd asked Lance to guard my post while I relieved myself." 
"If you called on the prince's personal guard, who was seeing to the prince?"
"I was only gone for a moment, Your—"