Reaching behind his head, he ruffles his hair and yanks. I cringe at the ripping sound. But when he opens his hand, the ring is there in his palm.
Without talking, I accept the ring. He flashes me a warning with his eyes, as if I might run off with it and hand it over to Bax. I simply glare at him, and he huffs. I remove the thread that he had tied around the band in order to knot it to his hair, then run my fingers over the crest.
I’m certain there is more to this ring than its symbolism. The Otherworlders wouldn’t invade a whole country merely to take a token of lineage from a king. I study the silver of the winged serpent, and the oval blue sapphire beneath. Then I flip it over and trace the backing.
There.
With deft movements, I twist a nearly invisible cog on the inside of the band.
The silver-plated backing springs open. Caben reaches out and catches it mid-air. We glance at each other before we both dip our heads closer to the ring. Inside lays a tiny sliver of crystal.
A shard.
“How didn’t I know—” Caben starts, then shakes his head. “How could he have kept this from me?” The blue of his irises deepen, and his brow pulls tighter, his features troubled—betrayed.
“It’s discovered now,” I assure him. “I?
??m sure you father didn’t want to endanger you with its truth unless forced.”
“What truth?” Caben asks. “That the Otherworlders burned my kingdom and killed my father for a chip of glass?” His anger burns blue-white in his eyes, the black light adding to the effect.
Again, I’m at a loss on how to comfort him. Why did his father keep this from him, yet put the danger right on his person? A ribbon or anger coils around my chest. His father’s action wasn’t as abhorrent as sticking a syringe in Caben’s arm and poisoning him. But he still endangered his son for the sake of protecting himself.
His father probably wanted to keep the shard close, and having his son wear it, he’d have access to it at all times. I inhale a deep breath, then try to focus my thoughts on what needs to be done now.
“Put this back in its hiding spot,” I tell Caben. “As long as the Otherworlders don’t have it, they can’t complete whatever it is they’re trying to do.” I slip the shard and backing back into place.
Caben reaches out and grasps the ring. His warm fingers trail over my palm. My skin flushes, my heart quickens, and my stomach muscles tighten against the tingling sensation when his fingertips linger a second longer on my skin. I swallow down my nerves, shaking off my anxiety as he attempts to reattach the string to his hair.
The sight of him trying to do this, for some reason, makes me smile. I shake my head. “Turn around,” I say. When he concedes, I part his dark hair, my fingers taking in its softness, and begin to tie the string to a strand in the middle.
His shoulders tremble, and he gives himself a shake. “Sorry,” he says, abashed. “Haven’t had someone play with my hair in a long time.”
I raise an eyebrow, surprised. Surely the prince has women fawning all over his rich, lustrous locks daily. “I find that hard to believe.”
Whipping around, he turns on me—my hands freeze midair from where they were just in his hair. “You have too many assumptions about me, protector.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap. “Not now that Bax has taken a liking to it.” Caben’s forehead creases, his mouth parts, and I groan, feeling bad for my outburst. I’m ashamed that I’ve allowed the Otherworlders to turn my title into something vile. “Just . . . sorry. I don’t like how he says it. And it’s fresh.”
Caben’s features relax and he nods once. “Understood. Though, it can’t be worse than”—he lowers his voice to match the announcer’s—“‘The Prince of Pain.’” He smiles, and I laugh.
“Very true,” I admit.
His gaze holds mine for a moment, then he sighs, breaking eye contact. “Before, what I meant was . . .” He trails off, and continues after clearing his throat. “I was referring to my mother. She used to run her fingers through my hair when I was boy to soothe me to sleep.”
He looks away, adjusts the sleeves of his tunic. Checks the back of his head, making sure the ring is secure. And I watch.
I see Caben.
Not the prince—not the title. Not even the spoiled heir to a kingdom. But a man who has lost things.
Settling along the stone wall, I slide down and bring my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs. “My mother used to whisper-sing to me,” I say. I clarify when Caben furrows his brow and cocks his head. “My father was moody a lot”—I roll my eyes at this, thinking moody is too kind a word—“and she never wanted to bother him. I just remember she had a beautiful voice, and I would scoot as close as possible to hear her.”
Of course, what I don’t tell him is now that her sickness has taken over her lungs, she’ll never sing again. That thought sinks my heart. I’d give anything to afford the medicines that would restore her health. If such medicines exist.
A quiet, unspoken comfort settles in the room, and I stretch out on the floor, ready to retire.
Caben jerks his head toward the cot. “Take the bed,” he says. “I think it would be wise for us to share a chamber—and one of us to be on the lookout for other contenders and whatnot. I can take the floor.”