It was bad enough they were walking together without Chaol, but to enter the kennels . . . “Are we allowed to be here?”

Nehemia straightened. “I am Princess of Eyllwe,” she said. “I can go wherever I please.”

Celaena followed the princess through a large wooden door. Wrinkling her nose at the sudden smell, the assassin walked past cages and stalls filled with dogs of many different breeds.

Some were so large that they came up to her hip, while others had legs the length of her hand with bodies as long as her arm. The breeds were all fascinating and beautiful, but the sleek hounds aroused awe within her breast. Their arched undersides and slender, long legs were full of grace and speed; they did not yap as the other dogs did, but sat perfectly still and watched her with dark, wise eyes.

“Are these all hunting dogs?” Celaena asked, but Nehemia had disappeared. She could hear her voice, and the voice of another, and then saw a hand extended from within a stall to beckon Celaena inside. The assassin hurried to the pen and looked down over the gate.

Dorian Havilliard smiled at her as Nehemia took a seat. “Why, hello, Lady Lillian,” he purred, and set aside a brown-and-gold puppy. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Though with Nehemia’s passion for hunting, I can’t say I’m surprised she finally dragged you along.”

Celaena stared at the four dogs. “These are the mutts?”

Dorian picked one up and stroked its head. “Pity, isn’t it? I still can’t resist their charm.”

Carefully, watching Nehemia laugh as two dogs leapt upon her and buried her beneath tongues and wagging tails, the assassin opened the pen door and slipped inside.

Nehemia pointed to the corner. “Is that dog sick?” she asked. There was a fifth pup, a bit larger than the others, and its coat was a silky, silvery gold that shimmered in the shadows. It opened its dark eyes, as if it knew it was being spoken about, and watched them. It was a beautiful animal, and had Celaena not known better, she would have thought it purebred.

“It’s not sick,” Dorian said. “It just has a foul disposition. It won’t come near anyone—human or canine.”

“With good reason,” Celaena said, stepping over the legs of the Crown Prince and nearing the fifth pup. “Why should it touch someone like you?”

“If it won’t respond to humans, then it will have to be killed,” Dorian said offhandedly, and a spark went through Celaena.

“Kill it? Kill it? For what reason? What did it do to you?”

“It won’t make a suitable pet, which is what all of these dogs will become.”

“So you’d kill it because of its temperament? It can’t help being that way!” She looked around. “Where’s its mother? Perhaps it needs her.”

“Its mother only sees them to nurse and for a few hours of socialization. I usually raise these dogs for racing and hunting—not for cuddling.”

“It’s cruel to keep it from its mother!” The assassin reached into the shadow and scooped the puppy into her arms. She held it against her chest. “I won’t let you harm it.”

“If its spirit is strange,” Nehemia offered, “it would be a burden.”

“A burden to whom?”

“It’s nothing to be upset about,” Dorian said. “Plenty of dogs are painlessly laid to rest each day. I don’t see why you would object to that.”

“Well, don’t kill this one!” she said. “Let me keep it—if only so you don’t kill it.”

Dorian observed her. “If it upsets you so much, I won’t have it killed. I’ll arrange for a home, and I’ll even ask for your approval before I make a final decision.”

“You’d do that?”

“What’s the dog’s life to me? If it pleases you, then it shall happen.”

Her face burned as he rose to his feet, standing close. “You—you promise?”

He put a hand on his heart. “I swear on my crown that the pup shall live.”

She was suddenly aware of how near to touching they were. “Thank you.”

Nehemia watched them from the floor, her brows raised, until one of her personal guards appeared at the gate. “It’s time to go, Princess,” he said in Eyllwe. “You must dress for your evening with the queen.” The princess stood, pushing past the bouncing puppies.

“Do you want to walk with me?” Nehemia said in the common tongue to Celaena.

Celaena nodded and opened the gate for them. Shutting the gate, she looked back at the Crown Prince. “Well? Aren’t you coming with us?”

He slumped down into the pen, and the puppies immediately leapt on him. “Perhaps I’ll see you later tonight.”

“If you’re lucky,” Celaena purred, and walked away. She smiled to herself as they strode through the castle.

Eventually Nehemia turned to her. “Do you like him?”

Celaena made a face. “Of course not. Why would I?”

“You converse easily. It seems as if you have . . . a connection.”

“A connection?” Celaena choked on the word. “I just enjoy teasing him.”

“It’s not a crime if you consider him handsome. I’ll admit I judged him wrong; I thought him to be a pompous, selfish idiot, but he’s not so bad.”

“He’s a Havilliard.”

“My mother was the daughter of a chief who sought to overthrow my grandfather.”

“We’re both silly. It’s nothing.”

“He seems to take great interest in you.”

Celaena’s head whipped around, her eyes full of long-forgotten fury that made her belly ache and twist. “I would sooner cut out my own heart than love a Havilliard,” she snarled.

They completed their walk in silence, and when they parted ways, Celaena quickly wished Nehemia a pleasant evening before striding to her part of the castle.

The few guards that followed her remained a respectful distance away—a distance that grew greater each day. Based on Chaol’s orders? Night had recently fallen, and the sky remained a deep blue, staining the snow piled upon the panes of the windows. She could easily walk right out of the castle, stock up on supplies in Rifthold, and be on a ship to the south by morning.

Celaena stopped at a window, leaning in close to the panes. The guards stopped, too, and said nothing as they waited. The coldness from outside seeped in, kissing her face. Would they expect her to go south? Perhaps going north would be the unexpected choice; no one went north in winter unless they had a death wish.

Something shifted in the reflection of the window, and she whirled as she beheld the man standing behind her.

But Cain didn’t smile at her, not in that mocking way. Instead, he panted, his mouth opening and closing like a fish wrenched from water. His dark eyes were wide, and he had a hand around his enormous throat. Hopefully, he was choking to death.

“Is something wrong?” she asked sweetly, leaning against the wall. He glanced from side to side, at the guards, at the window, before his eyes snapped to hers. His grip on his throat tightened, as if to silence the words that fought to come out, and the ebony ring on his finger gleamed dully. Even though it should have been impossible, he seemed to have packed on an additional ten pounds of muscle in the past few days. In fact, every time she saw him, Cain seemed bigger and bigger.