A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 61

Beron Vanserra, the notorious High Lord of the Autumn Court, glared. Disgust burned in his brown eyes like coals, as if her sheer existence annoyed him. As if she was unworthy of breathing the same air.

Beyond the blood roaring in her ears from her pounding heart, in the back of her mind, Gwyn could hear Azriel and Cassian imploring her to stay safe. Remain sharp and in control. She heard Eris's dire warning, Right there. That alone will get you killed here. In the Forest House, you'll want to be a ghost.

Gwyn had adhered to those words. Mostly, anyway. Head down, setting to work. Her ears were always open to gossip and secrets, as Azriel had taught. She'd been nothing but the portrait of obedience for all to see—except for the last two days.

Arrogant, wrathful hubris was drawn into the finely dressed male's strict posture and clenched fists. Both the torchlight and a muscle in his jaw flickered, and Gwyn wondered if the former had been because of him. His dark eyes glinted with the promise of retribution. Unlike Rhysand, this High Lord wore no visage. Wanted the entire world to behold who he truly was—authority and privilege to be respected. To be feared.

What would it have been like to grow up here? Her gut roiled at the image of the Lady of Autumn's tear-streaked face against the satin pillow. And if this beast of a male was capable of that, then only the Mother knew what his children witnessed. Endured. And what of Gwyn's own mother? Her mother, who'd spent early, formative years here; what horrors had she faced?

But, by the Cauldron, the Valkyrie inside couldn't help herself. Before smartly diverting her gaze to her feet like a good little servant girl should, Gwyn took stock of the male before her. Thin, cruel features stared back; traits Soren, Brom, and Asher Vanserra seemed to inherit from their father. Although the latter two were well-muscled, both built more warrior than lordling .

Eris though? The eldest son barely resembled the High Lord beyond his air of arrogance and entitlement—that Eris had in spades. His mother was clear in his features, beyond the crafted image of cruelty he brandished like a sword. A weapon of defense.

Though the High Lord had set himself to rights, as if nothing had occurred in that bedchamber, as if all was well—in her mind, Gwyn only saw what he had done an hour before. To his own wife.

Those tearful russet eyes beseeching Gwyn to leave. But...had the Lady really wanted what was happening? Deep in her disquiet, the former priestess knew the answer. And gods spare her, but Gwyn couldn't help but recall the hateful glee of the Hybern commander reflected in the crowned male before her.

Contrary to her better judgment, Gwyn held his hard gaze before finally paying heed to Eris's words. Hands itching to grab her dagger instead clasped behind her back. Gwyn lowered her eyes and bowed her head, playing the role of obedient servant, tamping down her inner fiery self as much as she had to. Becoming the rock against which the surf crashes.

Only silence greeted her, tense and thick like choking smoke. Gwyn forced herself in, straightened her spine, and held her breath. And waited and waited and waited .

The High Lord knew what he was doing. This was a power game. A cat playing with a mouse.

His scorching gaze felt as deadly as a blade against her throat and just as piercing. As cutting. Even with her head lowered, Gwyn could feel him assessing every single inch of her from the top of her braided coppery hair to the tips of her scruffy leather boots. From Beron's disapproving huff, it seemed as if every single part had failed inspection.

Despite herself, her damn cheeks grew hot.

"You're one of my wife's ladies-in-waiting. The...newest one." Not a question, simply a stated fact. The fact crawled down her spine like spiders.