Loving the Forbidden Prince

ETAN

Etan had tried to leave. When the Queen dropped her bomb, then swept out, leaving him there utterly alone and staring at the door, he tried to go. But he couldn't move. His eyes dragged across the room, along the shelves of books, the single window, the plush chairs… this alien room in the wing of his enemy. How had he ended up here? He had to leave, he reminded himself. He couldn't face Ayleth yet, he wasn't strong enough. And she might show up at any minute. Etan needed time and energy to do what needed to be done to save her. For her own good! 

But he couldn't force himself to move. He was frozen in place, his mind humming—screaming—with images of desperately, frantically stealing Ayleth, running away together, only to feel her pull away from him, her beautiful face going pale, then her elegant form crumpling to the dirt. 

Is that what it would look like if the Queen made good on her threat? Or would there be pain? Would he be dragging Ayleth out of the castle and along the road, racing to try to reach Summitras, only to feel her pull back and when he turned, find her eyes open wide in surprise, strange noises breaking from her throat as blood began to pour from her mouth, her ears, her eyes. Would she clutch her own chest as her heart was crushed? Or would she gasp and cough, drowning in her own blood? 

The mental image cut him like a sword to the stomach. He grunted with the impact, but still found himself frozen, as if his feet were nailed to the floor.

Minutes later—an eternity, and not nearly long enough—when he still wasn't free of the terror, the door handle turned carefully, Etan's heart slammed against his ribs and his blood thrummed in his ears. She was coming—she would expect his declaration, his support, his love!

What would he say?

But as the door swung slowly open and the grizzled face of Borsche appeared—who suddenly looked ten years older with the salt-and-pepper scruff on his cheeks, and the lines of stress on his face—Etan heart sank and sang in the same moment. 

His darling Ayleth wasn't here yet. There was still time.

Catching Etan's eyes with a question in his own, Borsche stepped into the room looking back and forth, obviously searching for Ayleth and Falek, and the Queen. But he didn't speak as he pushed the door wider to step in and reveal Etan's mother, her dark hair also peppered with gray that somehow Etan hadn't noticed before today, following him. She looked curious, but tense. Clearly Borsche hadn't yet filled her in.

As Borsche made his bows, then stepped to Etan's side, his mother turned to scan the room, then looked at him with her lips pressed tight. "Have you permission to use this room, Etan?" she asked quietly. "It is a risk, if not. You know the restrictions we've been under—"

Rage sent a bonfire of flames into his chest again, and Etan hurried forward to embrace her, kissing her on both cheeks, to give himself a moment to calm before he answered.

She smiled, her eyes slightly wide at the sudden expression of affection. Then she put a hand to his face. "Are you well, son?" she asked with the low, soothing gentleness only a mother could. 

For a moment, Etan wanted to bury his face in her chest, cling, and cry, as he had when he was only eight and his best friend had mocked him before all the children of the Court. He wanted to fold himself into her skirts and plead with her to protect him. He wanted to tell her everything and beg her to fix it for him.

But instead he put his hand—now larger and stronger than her cool, slim fingers and palm—over hers and forced a small smile. "I am as well as can be expected. Thank you for coming without arguing with Borsche. I know it's a bit mysterious."

"A bit?" she laughed. "I hadn't seen that signal from Borsche since you were nineteen and got drunk at the brothel!"

Etan whirled to Borsche. "You told her about that?!" he hissed, mortified.

Borsche shrugged. "I was worried you might have caught a disease. You needed immediate care."

Etan gaped at the man he'd thought held all his secrets. Then turned back to find his mother smiling knowingly, her hands clasped at her waist. "Etan, don't be angry. When you have children, you'll understand. You think I haven't watched the men in my life and how they deal with… life before?"

She was one of four siblings and the only female. As he'd gotten older, Etan had been grateful for a mother who understood men—whether she approved or not. His father spoke highly of her in that regard, as well. She didn't hesitate to tell them both when she felt they were out of line—but she also didn't fuss and panic over the smaller things.

Like stupid, teenage mistakes in brothels, apparently. Light! 

"That is… not important right now," he said and cleared his throat. "But, I want to assure you, Mother, that I no longer—"

"Etan, it's fine. You're a good man, like your father. I'm proud of you—and very grateful that you've taken a different path in life than you might have. Now, tell me what's going on and why you've come back looking like the world weighs on your shoulders."

Borsche cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should wait until—"

"No!" Etan said sharply, without turning to look at him, though he could feel his man's gaze on his back, prickling at the back of his neck. His mother blinked in surprise. Etan and Borsche were often dryly sarcastic with each other—or downright arguing. But they were rarely sharp. Then Etan closed his eyes and did turn, bracing himself for the look on Borsche's face, forcing himself to be strong. 

He could do this. For Ayleth's sake... he could do this.