Chapter 7 has some very Kingly moments for Dorian:
Asterin gave him a wicked grin. "Morning, Your Majesty."
"It is a king's mercy you receive," Dorian said coldly, "and I'd suggest being quiet long enough to receive it." Rarely, so rarely did Manon hear that voice from him, the tone that sent a thrill through her blood and bones. A king’s voice.
But he was not her king. He was not the coven leader of the Thirteen.
Dorian's sapphire eyes churned, the hand on his sword tightening. Manon tensed at that contemplative, cold stare. The hint of the calculating predator beneath the king's handsome face.
"A king without his crown asks for a lowly spider's name," she murmured, her depthless eyes setting on him. "You cannot pronounce it in your tongue, but you may call me Cyrene." Manon ground her teeth. "It doesn't matter what we call you, as you'll be dead soon."
But Dorian cut her a sidelong glance. "The Ruhnns are a part of my kingdom. As such, Cyrene is one of my subjects. I think that gives me the right to decide whether she lives or dies."
"You are both at the mercy of my coven,"
Manon snarled. "Step aside."
Dorian gave her a slight smile. "Am I?" A wind colder than the mountain air filled the pass.
He could kill them all. Whether by choking the air from them or snapping their necks. He could kill them all, and the wyverns included. The knowledge carved out another hollow within him. Another empty spot. Had it ever troubled his father, or Aelin, to bear such power?
Manon ignored the spider. "And when she shifts in the night to rip us apart?"
Dorian only inclined his head, ice dancing at his fingertips. "She won't."
Cyrene sucked in a breath. "A rare gift of magic." Her stare turned ravenous as she took in Dorian. "For a rare king."
Manon glanced to Asterin. Her Second's eyes were wary, her mouth a tight line. Sorrel, a few feet behind, glowered at the spider, but her hand had dropped from her sword.
The Thirteen, on some unspoken signal, peeled away to their wyverns. Only Cyrene watched them, those horrible, soulless eyes blinking every now and then as her teeth began to clack.
Manon angled her head at him. "You're … different today."
He shrugged. "If you want someone to warm your bed who cowers at your every word and obeys every command, look elsewhere."
Her stare drifted to the pale band around his throat. "I'm still not convinced, princeling," she hissed, "that I shouldn't just kill her."
"And what would it take, witchling, to convince you?"
A muscle flickered in Manon's jaw. Things from legends—that's who surrounded him. The witches, the spider ... He might as well have been a character in one of the books he'd lent Aelin last fall. Though none of them had ever endured such a yawning pit inside them.
