BOUND TO THE DEVILS HEIR

CHAPTER 2

The Devil’s Seventh Son

His name was Caelan.

Prince Caelan of Raveneth — seventh son of King Malachar, who was himself said to be the son of the Devil. Whether that was literally true or simply the kind of story that attached itself to powerful men who were also feared ones, no one could say with certainty. What everyone could say was that the princes of Raveneth were not ordinary men. They were not men you wanted your daughter to marry. They were not men you wanted to meet at all, if you had any choice in the matter.

And apparently, I had none.

I had heard stories of Caelan since I was a girl. All the children in Eldenmere had — they were the kind of stories used to keep children obedient. ‘Be good,’ the nurses said, ‘or the dark prince will come.’ As though he were some creature of legend, something that lived in the space between sleeping and waking.

I had always assumed the stories were exaggerated.

Standing in my father’s throne room, watching the confirmation move across his face, I was suddenly, deeply less certain of that.

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“The alliance is already agreed,” my father said, when we were alone. The courtiers had been dismissed, my mother tactfully removed. It was just the two of us and the weight of everything he had already decided without me. “The contracts are signed. In three weeks, you will travel to Raveneth for the ceremony.”

“Three weeks,” I repeated.

“It is sufficient time to prepare.”

I looked at my father — really looked at him — and tried to find something there that resembled feeling. He was not a cruel man, exactly. He simply lived in a world where sentiment was a liability and daughters were currency, and he had never seen any reason to question the architecture of that world.

“What is he like?” I asked. “Prince Caelan. What is he actually like?”

A pause. Just half a second, but I caught it.

“He is powerful,” my father said. “And he will protect you and any children you give him with everything in his considerable arsenal. You will want for nothing material.”

He had not answered my question. He had answered a different question — the one about whether I would be safe, the one about whether the kingdom would benefit. Not the one about who this man was.

“Father—”

“Three weeks, Rosalind.” He picked up a document from the table. The conversation was over. “Use the time wisely.”

I left the throne room with my spine straight and my hands folded and a hollow feeling in my chest that I refused to call fear.

I was a princess of Eldenmere. I had been trained for exactly this.

The only problem was that no amount of training had prepared me for him.