Page 45 of Reign

“We were close friends,” I replied.

Spite consumed me, and I yanked on the straps around his arm tight enough to pinch. He flinched as I purposefully caught his skin, and I took pleasure in causing him pain.

After a sardonic chuckle, Fitzroy said, “I’m sure you were, blacksmith,” spitting my title—making what I’d always aspired to be sound like an insult.

Heat hit my face as I fought to steady my anger. “How dare he demean honest work,” I muttered to myself. “Especially after he called upon my expertise.”

“Pardon?” Fitzroy asked.

I ignored him as I retrieved his helmet. After a calming breath, the heat cooled from my cheeks and my rage subsided. I felt ready to continue the fitting.

“Did you not hear me?” Fitzroy called over my shoulder. “Or are you deaf as well as dumb?”

It was as if he’d just tossed straw upon the bonfire. My fury no longer warmed my face—it engulfed me entirely.

“I know your subjects wedge their skulls so far up your arse that they cannot tell day from night,” I spat, turning back to meet His Highness head-on. “But I won’t humor you. I won’t pretend to like you, even if you are my liege.”

The words tumbled out before I could restrain them, and I instantly regretted my candor. Scoundrel or not, Fitzroy was royalty, and that meant he held my life in his hands.

Fitzroy snickered. “You don’t have to like me,” he said, planting his fists upon his hips as he took a dominant stance. “You only have to obey my every command.”

“What if I don’t?” I challenged him.

“I’ll have my knights execute you,” he replied with a charming smile, flashing gleaming teeth, as though he hadn’t just threatened to take my life.

With a scoff, I uttered, “I’m not afraid of death.”

That was a lie. But I refused to show weakness—anything he might later exploit.

“Clearly, it doesn’t scare you either,” I added.

Fitzroy raised a brow. “Explain.”

“It’s brave of you to threaten the man repairing your armor,” I said, tossing his helmet to the ground.

It landed with a metallic thud right before his polished boots.

Striding forward, Fitzroy closed the space between us until a fist could hardly fit between our noses.

“Fortunately, I won’t be a human shield,” he said, holding my gaze. “I cannot say the same for you—or the rest of the hoi polloi.”

We stayed face-to-face for an uncomfortably long time, neither of us willing to yield. At first, I had to resist the urge to headbutt him. But the longer I observed His Grace, the more I resented the twisted part of me that fed off the friction.

His stubbornness outmatched mine, and eventually, I grew tired of his ploys and relented. “Let me fit your gauntlet, and I’ll be gone,” I said, stepping down.

I crouched, aligning my face with Fitzroy’s gloved hand before attempting to slide his ring-laden fingers into the gauntlet. But with all his jewels and gems, it soon proved impossible.

“May I remove your rings?” I asked, peering up.

As he nodded, Fitzroy’s gaze stayed fixed dead ahead, not even granting me the courtesy of eye contact.

Gripping his wrist firmly, I removed each band of glistening gold. Yet even without the finery, the gauntlet remained impractically snug. With a frustrated huff, I slammed down the metal mitten, hoping that without his glove it would finally fit. I slipped my fingers beneath the hem and yanked the glove off with one swift tug. For a moment, the complexion of his skin took me aback. It bore deep purple swirls, radiating from the center of his palm and bleeding out toward his fingertips. But as I studied his markings, I realized—they were identical to Bash’s. My suspicions flared. Was Fitzroy a wizard?

As the question circled my mind, Fitzroy noticed my quiet observation and snatched his hand from mine.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I tripped over a hearth as a child,” he replied—his tone sounded rehearsed, as if he’d told this tale many times. “Charred them like venison on a gridiron.”