Kiran and I are the same, but that doesn’t matter. Because when it comes down to which of us gets our happy ending, I know whose I’ll choose.

PART II

LIAR

CHAPTER 9

PIPER

I’ve always prided myself on being the most paranoid person in the room.

It comes with the territory—kidnapping children for a living from the ripe age of twelve tends to do that to a person.

It seems, however, that I’ve been displaced.

Lydia, Princess of Naenden, also known as the Umbra—though that’s supposed to be a secret—has usurped me.

The female wouldn’t drink a drop of nectar from a honeysuckle without first offering it to a stranger.

That wouldn’t be so inconvenient, except that she forces Marcus, Amity, and me to follow the same protocol.

As if I hadn’t learned to detect poison in my goblets from the time I could taste the difference between sweet and sour. I have few things for which to thank Bronger, the man who had raised me to be his head trafficker, but survival skills definitely make the scant list.

“She really is going to do this every time, isn’t she?” Marcus sits atop a tavern barstool to my left, playing with my hand under the counter, bringing a blush to my cheeks. Amity, our unofficially adopted daughter, bounces excitedly on her tiptoes before scrambling onto the barstool to my right.

Traveling with Amity has been another thing to which Lydia has had to adjust. Apparently, our guide is used to frequenting the seedier taverns and inns for daily needs, none of which Marcus or I would typically let Amity go anywhere near.

Lydia grumbles about it, of course, claiming the two of us to be overprotective. We mostly just chuckle over Lydia’s stunned expression every time Amity speaks to her.

It’s clear Lydia is not used to being around children and doesn’t know what to make of Amity’s bluntness. Which is ironic, since Lydia is probably the most blunt person I’ve ever met.

That, and the most insistent on checking for poison in our goblets.

That’s exactly what she’s currently doing, draping herself over the bar and batting her eyelashes at the male sitting beside her.

From the looks of her, you would think she’s drunk, though Elias explained that Lydia can hardly stand the scent of ale. He never explained the reasoning, but I’ve heard enough about the late King of Naenden, known enough fathers like Amity’s, to have made my own assumptions.

Lydia leans in close to the stranger, who blinks rapidly as if he’s trying to decide whether this is actually happening to him, whether a female as stunning as Lydia could actually be flirting with him.

The answer is no, of course, but the male is too eager for a miracle to accept as much.

Elias sits on Marcus’s opposite side, and though I exchange a glance with him—a “how do you like your female falling all over another male” kind of glance—there’s nothing but sheer amusement in his expression.

Elias is considerably younger than Lydia, and one of the few true friends I made at the Coup, a league of assassins intent on overthrowing the fae regime. The Coup has dissolved since I put an arrow through Bronger’s chest, but Elias remains a close friend. I was shocked to find he’d been in a relationship with the Princess of Naenden for quite a while, the two of them having kept up with one another through clandestine meetings. Like this was all a fun game of cat and mouse.

Lydia even stabbed Elias once, gifting him a collapsed lung. Apparently, he’s into that kind of thing.

Yes, they’re definitely a good match, I think as I look across the counter at Elias’s carefree expression. There’s not a hint of jealousy on his face as he watches Lydia flirt with another male.

Elias and I make eye contact. He just shrugs, as if to communicate, It’s just what she does.

Indeed, Lydia takes a sip from her goblet (or rather, pretends to take a sip), sighing with delight and insisting to the male that this is the best-tasting wine she’s ever had.

Water sloshes over the edge of the cup.

This is purposeful, of course. This way, Amity can drink it too.

Amusement mingles with shock on the male’s face. Clearly he thinks she’s too drunk to know what she’s tasting, but when she hands the goblet to him so that he too can partake in the wonderful concoction, he draws it to his lips.

Lydia’s posture shifts as she assesses everything about him. Her pointed ears perk as she listens for any changes in his pulse or breathing.

“One day, one of these poor males is going to fall over dead,” Marcus grumbles.

“I saw him steal money from the coin purse of the lady with the cane in the corner,” Amity whispers in a tone that suggests that, should the male fall over dead from poison not meant for him, he probably deserves it anyway.

Marcus and I exchange a look.

Our daughter has an extremely rigid moral code, another reason Lydia so often grows exasperated with her.

It used to get on my nerves, too. That was back when I was transporting Amity from her abusive home to the Coup. So much has happened since then, and in such a short time, I’ve grown to adore that little girl. Marcus and I plan to adopt her. We even announced it to her at our wedding, but Lydia had shown up and thrown a wrench in the process.

Still. She might as well be ours.

Marcus reaches across me and scrubs his knuckles through Amity’s hair. She swats him away in annoyance for ruining her braid, which, given that it’s attached to Amity, was already ruined, but he doesn’t mention as much.

The male sitting beside Lydia murmurs something and walks away. He shakes his head, which must mean Lydia has employed the “disgust” segment of her protocol. It tends to be equally effective as her flirting. Especially when she sprinkles in a bit of belching and hysterical sobs in between drunken hiccups.

Looking pleased with her work, Lydia takes a swig of water, then passes the bottle down the counter, forcing us all to share since this is the only vessel in the vicinity that has been tested for poison.

“I don’t know who she thinks is going to poison us,” Marcus says.

He takes the bottle from me and drinks.

The plan is to sleep in tents on the outskirts of town tonight. This wasn’t the original plan. More like the backup plan. But Lydia didn’t like the looks the barman at the inn was giving me, so the tent it is.

I don’t mind hiding out. I’ve been doing it my entire life, but I suppose neither Marcus nor I am used to having someone else decide for us.

Specifically, someone like Lydia.

When she and Elias first showed up, she wanted us to lie low for a while, at least until the man she called Azrael tamped down his hunt for me. That wasn’t all that difficult. Elias and I still have connections that allowed us to take shelter.

Van, an old friend from the Coup, had let us stay in her new hideout, tucked away in the ravine separating Avelea and Charshon.

Eventually, Lydia became suspicious of the lack of intel she’d been able to collect about Az’s next move, and she decided that we weren’t safe where we were.

That we needed the protection of royalty.

Personally, I have a sneaking suspicion the Naenden royalty needs me for something else, but Lydia always evades my questions. I’m never sure whether to trust her, but the fact that she’s incapable of lying helps some. That, and the fact Elias trusts her.