Page 81 of Reign

The feather atop the esquire’s hat bobbed as he marched toward me. “Answer me when I address you, serf,” he snarled, his putrid breath stinging my eyes.

Fitzroy rose to his feet, letting his chair topple backward and clatter against the wooden planks. He sauntered over—calm yet menacing—to where I was being humiliated.

“Who are you talking to?” Fitzroy demanded in a low, threatening tone.

“Only a villager,” the esquire replied dismissively.

Fitzroy’s smoldering gaze narrowed. “That villager is the best blacksmith in Cambas—the reason I’m still breathing,” he declared as he seized the esquire by the scruff of his neck. “Speak kindly to Smith, or I’ll remove that spiteful tongue from your rotten mouth.”

The esquire bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he squeaked as Fitzroy released him from his jewel-encrusted grasp.

“Why are you apologizing to me?” Fitzroy asked, shaking his head. “Now get on your knees and grovel to Smith.”

Heat warmed my skin, partly because I was grateful that Fitzroy would defend me publicly, and shamefully because I found his dominance intoxicating. I rubbed my hand against the nape of my neck, trying to dissipate the lingering tingles—not allowing myself to find the prince alluring.

The esquire looked utterly mortified, his disbelief plain as he was forced to demean himself. With a humiliated huff, he stooped low and knelt upon the wooden boards.

“Forgive me,” he groveled, struggling to maintain eye contact.

I stared down at him, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long. Fitzroy had taught me this domineering tactic, and I savored every second of the esquire’s squirming.

“Apology accepted,” I said—even though it wasn’t. I truly hated him.

“Get up,” Fitzroy spat, nudging the red-faced esquire with his knee. “That shameful display concludes our meeting today. As always, thank you for your wisdom.”

Fitzroy couldn’t resist snorting at his own sarcasm.

After the men departed, I bowed my head to Fitzroy.

“Thank you, my liege,” I said, with utter sincerity.

He flashed me a charming smile—the flecks of gold in his brown irises glistened a little brighter than usual.

“Don’t mention it,” Fitzroy replied. “I’ve spent all morning listening to hopeless war tactics. I pray you’re the bearer of some good news.”

I nodded, eager to gloat and desperate to impress him.

“I have your army—and I’ve organized a private meeting place for us.”

“You’ve exceeded my expectations,” Fitzroy said with a firm pat on my shoulder. “Who and where?”

“I’ve recruited four magical members.”

“Good start. Who are the wizards?”

“Sebastian,” I replied. “The carpenter.”

“One of the Headlands thieves?” Fitzroy asked, his eyebrows arching in disbelief.

I nodded—instantly deflated by his demeanor.

Fitzroy sighed, clearly unimpressed. “Who else?”

“Um,” I hesitated, now dreading his reaction to finding out about the witches. “I’m not certain you would know the others by name.”

“Let me guess—you’ve failed in your pursuit of finding me wizards?” Fitzroy asked. “I should have known,” he muttered, his tone dripping with disappointment.

For the second time today, Fitzroy heated me—but this time, there was no confusion, only pure animosity at his manner.