Bad Blood

Two

If Prince Ciaran had ever done anything stranger or more terrifying than throwing a birthday gala for a man who he strongly suspected wanted to kill him, he certainly couldn't think of it.

It was a situation made even more strange and terrifying by the fact that this man was not just the most powerful man in Windemere, but also his older brother.

Ciaran threw back his sixth—or was it his seventh?—measure of whiskey that evening, along with a handful of lords and ladies who joined him in the southern pavilion. The liquor was peaty and smooth and warmed him to his core; everything he loved in a good whiskey. He allowed the flavor to linger in his mouth for a few seconds before taking a sip of sparkling wine from the flute in his other hand.

The alcohol had all been obtained from the two territories the kingdom had acquired that year. It seemed a fitting tribute to Nolan's rule.

He glanced down to check on his royal ridgeback, Bane. The dog sat next to Ciaran, facing the opposite direction so that he could watch for any approaching threats behind the prince. A strip of the short red-brown fur along his spine grew in the opposite direction from the rest of the sleek pelt, creating a ridge that ended in two whorls just under the dog's shoulder blades. This was a hallmark of the breed that Ciaran's family had spent generations perfecting.

Ciaran stroked one of Bane's soft drop ears and the dog's tail wagged against his foot.

"You've outdone yourself again, Your Highness," one nobleman said to Ciaran with a bow.

Ciaran gave him a polite dip of his head. Etiquette dictated he try to deflect the compliment, to humble himself in some way, but Ciaran didn't see the point in arguing with a true statement. The palace gardens sparkled beneath the purple sky. Waiters offered platters of finger foods to the guests and ensured no one's glass was ever empty. Nolan and Ciaran had very different tastes in music, so Ciaran had opted for a sensible pianist whose sonatas filled the air just above the excited chatting of the guests.
If this was the last party he was ever going to throw for his brother, he might as well make it the best one yet. Despite their current situation, he still owed Nolan that much. And admittedly, there was still a part of him that hoped he could gain back his brother's favor.

The fact that Ciaran had no proof that Nolan wanted him dead made his stomach churn,

but he couldn't help but be reminded of their father's increasingly erratic behavior in the weeks leading up to their mother's death. The red flags were only growing redder.

And if Nolan was going to go the same way as their father, Ciaran was determined to strike first. After all, if he died, who would care for Bane?

"All the more impressive considering you spent the afternoon facing down a werewolf," a woman said.

Ciaran shrugged good-naturedly. "It wasn't the first time I've dealt with a dangerous animal."

He took another sip from his glass. He hated this charade.

"Has anyone seen Lady Ophelia around?" Ciaran asked. "I was looking for her but I got—ah—distracted."

"I believe I saw her out in the west gardens earlier," a noblewoman answered.

She gave a salacious glance to the lady next to her. Ciaran paid it no mind. Ophelia was a free woman for the next three months, and their relationship was no one's business until then. He threw back the rest of the wine and turned to leave, but was cut off.

"I don't suppose His Majesty will be joining us?"

Ciaran shook his head with a gracious smile. "He has work to attend to, I'm afraid. The kingdom doesn't stop for a birthday."