Crypts and Crimes (Trixie Towers #3) - Scarlett Dawn Page 0,3

out of the shower. “About twenty minutes ago.”

Holy Fairy. The enemy could have slit my throat before I took notice they were here. My observational skills were sorely lacking tonight, as engrossed in this book as I was.

I blinked. “Huh.”

Father tossed the towel back into the bathroom and glanced down at the tome. He casually asked, “How did you manage to get that book, my daughter?”

“I think Louie gifted it to me.” I wrinkled my red brows in false confusion and wiggled the book—just a little. “When he sent me away from King Athon’s study, I arrived with this in tow. It was lying right next to me on the bed.”

King Traevon’s frank demeanor didn’t crack. “Do you know where that book is from?”

I looked straight into his eyes. “I don’t have the foggiest idea. Although, I doubt it’s Fae since it’s about tigers.”

“Hmm.” Father’s lips twitched at the corners. “It’s from King Athon’s study. I’ve often admired it on his shelf and have wanted it for my own for a very long time.”

“Don’t even try to swindle me, my king.” I instantly clutched the book tight to my chest, frowning at my father’s sly antics—meant to pull on the heartstrings. “Louie gave it to me. You can borrow it from me when I’m done reading it. But it’s mine. Don’t forget that.”

“All right, my heir. You win.” Father chuckled and climbed into bed next to me, kissing the top of my head. “No one will steal the book from you.”

“Who said anything about stealing?” I asked, taken aback.

King Traevon sniggered once more, shrugging his shoulders. He pulled the blankets up over him and fluffed his pillow. “I guess I said it.”

“Father!” I admonished.

“What can I say? The blue apple didn’t fall too far from the elven tree.” He winked and turned onto his side, his back facing me.

I grunted and scooted away from him, holding the tome close. “I don’t trust you.”

His bare shoulders shook—laughing silently.

I opened the book and scanned the page, not really reading, my mind on other things. I mumbled, “I’ve never seen you steal before.”

King Traevon yawned so wide his jaw popped. “Do I look like an elven tree? I think not. Goodnight, my daughter.”

“Goodnight,” I responded absently.

He could twist his words even better than Grandmother Isabella could—how she was always careful with her phrasing, being a seer. It must be a family trait. I had practically perfected it as a child myself, a gift of the tongue inherited from the familial line.

I wondered if he was proud of me for it.

Or did it make him feel filthy not telling the entire truth to those he loved, as it did to me? Did he want to scrub his brain, too, so only clean truth remained? With whole truths left to be spoken?

I flipped a page blindly.

I glowered down at it, all the words jumbling together.

There would be no more reading this evening.

I tilted my head back and stared at the glowing ceiling, the hues inside the room warm and comforting, perfect for sleep. But my brutal soul mate’s food now filled my belly, and it had renewed my energy. I continued to flip pages randomly while I evaluated the stained glass. I waited until Father’s breathing evened out, and then I waited even longer, listening for the telltale sign of his deep slumber—his odd hitching breaths, as if he was stressed even in sleep, dreaming of battles and blood and duty.

It took a firm forty minutes before I heard it.

I closed the tome and slid off the bed quietly—the book coming with me. I shoved it down into my traveling bag and pulled the strap over my right shoulder, my red locks catching and yanking under the leather strap. I left my hair as it was; less movement was vital with a king older than a millennium in the room.

Father didn’t stir as I slipped out the door.

CHAPTER TWO

Confession of a princess:

My mother taught me well.

All of those dreadful painting lessons have finally paid off—though I will never pick up a paintbrush again, much to her dismay. I simply do not have the talent for it, as Mother does.

But when I was young, my mind was the canvas, my mother’s words the brush strokes, lovingly painting with maternal dedication all she wanted me to learn.

I did retain the artistic secrets she revealed.

Mother would be proud of me…

If only I could tell her.

I HELD THE sides of my too large pajama bottoms up over my bare