“Fourteen?” Jonas sputtered. “You dare insult him like that?”
Tomas grabbed the back of Jonas’s shirt and pulled him backward. “Calm down.”
Jonas’s dark eyes flashed. “When our father’s being taken advantage of by some ridiculous silk-wearing bastard, I take offense.”
“Bastard?” Aron’s voice had turned to ice. “Who are you calling a bastard, peasant?”
Tomas turned slowly, anger brimming in his gaze. “My brother was calling you a bastard. Bastard.”
And this, Cleo thought with a sinking feeling, was the absolute worst thing someone could ever call Aron. It wasn’t common knowledge, but he was a bastard. Born of a pretty blond maid his father once took a liking to. Since Sebastien Lagaris’s wife was barren, she had taken the baby on as her own from the moment he was born. The maid, Aron’s real mother, had died soon after under mysterious circumstances that no one had dared to question either then or now. But there was still talk. And this talk was what had met Aron’s ears when he was old enough to understand what it all meant.
“Princess?” Theon asked, as if looking for her command to intervene. She put her hand on his arm to stop him. This didn’t need to become more of a scene than it already was.
“Let’s go, Aron.” She exchanged a worried look with Mira, who nervously set down her second glass of wine.
Aron’s attention didn’t leave Tomas. “How dare you insult me?”
“You should obey your little girlfriend and leave,” Tomas advised. “The sooner the better.”
“And as soon as your father fetches the cases of wine for me, I’d be more than happy to do just that.”
“Forget the wine. Walk away and consider yourself lucky that I didn’t make a bigger deal of your insult toward my father. He is trusting and willing to undersell himself. I am not.”
Aron bristled, his previous calm now thrust aside by offense and inebriation, making him much braver than he should be when faced with two tall, muscular Paelsians. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
“Do we care?” Jonas and his brother exchanged a glance.
“I am Aron Lagaris, son of Sebastien Lagaris, lord of Elder’s Pitch. I stand here in your market accompanied by none other than Princess Cleiona Bellos of Auranos. Show respect to us both.”
“This is ridiculous, Aron.” Cleo hissed a small breath from between her teeth. She did wish that he wouldn’t put on such airs. Mira slipped her arm through Cleo’s and squeezed her hand. Let’s go, she seemed to be signaling.
“Oh, your highness.” Sarcasm dripped from Jonas’s words as he mock-bowed. “Both of your highnesses. It is a true honor to be in your shining presence.”
“I could have you beheaded for such disrespect,” Aron slurred. “Both of you and your father. Your sister too.”
“Leave my sister out of this,” Tomas growled.
“Let me guess, if it’s her wedding day, I’ll assume she’s already with child? I’ve heard Paelsian girls don’t wait for marriage before they spread their legs to anyone with enough coin to pay.” Aron glanced at Felicia, who looked mortified and indignant. “I have some money. Perhaps you might give me a half hour of your attentions before dusk.”
“Aron!” Cleo snapped, appalled.
That she was totally ignored by him was no surprise. Jonas turned his furious gaze on her—so hot she felt singed by it.
Tomas, who seemed the marginally less hotheaded of the two brothers, turned the darkest, most venomous glare she’d ever seen in her life on Aron. “I could kill you for saying such a thing about my sister.”
Aron gave him a thin smile. “Try it.”
Cleo finally cast a look over her shoulder at a frustrated-looking Theon, whom she’d basically commanded not to intervene. It was clear to her now that she had no control over this situation. All she wanted to do was go back to the ship and leave all this unpleasantness far behind. But it was too late for that now.
Powered by the insult toward his sister, Tomas flew at Aron with fists clenched. Mira gasped and put her hands over her eyes. There was no doubt Tomas would easily win a fight between the two and beat the thinner Aron into a bloody pulp. But Aron had a weapon—his fashionable jeweled dagger he wore at his hip.
It was now in his grip.
Tomas didn’t see the knife. When he drew closer and grabbed hold of Aron’s shirt, Aron thrust his blade into Tomas’s throat. The boy’s hands shot up to his neck as the blood began to gush, his eyes wide with shock and pain. A moment later, he fell to his knees and then fully hit the ground. His hands clawed at his throat, the dagger still deeply embedded there. Blood swiftly formed a crimson puddle around the boy’s head.
It had all happened so fast.