Freaking butterflies threaten to drill a hole in my stomach; that’s how affected I am.
“And I thought I needed to work on my game,” I grin, despite hoping to appear teasing and mysterious.
“I will play whatever game you want, darling.”
I’m freaking blushing, which makes him smirk just like he did when he was going down on me.
Trouble!
Fortunately or not, he takes pity on me and changes the subject. “Are you joining me upstairs?” Jestin points his head meaningfully to the stage and kills all the beautiful creations in my stomach.
And who is a mass murderer now?
Fuck.
I shouldn’t joke about that.
No High Queen would ever let other nobles address the crowd instead of her. My Grams would have hung him for suggesting otherwise, yet I am not her.
I shake my head and Jestin sighs in exasperation, but respects my wish and waits for me to sit in the first row. I don’t want to, but I don’t want to cause a scene even more, so I wait for Zulu to move her ass down the aisle.
She’s just as happy about that as I am.
When I finally sit in the most uncomfortable place I can, he asks, hovering above me. “Next time?” He waits for me to respond, and soon all eyes are on us.
Fucker.
“Sure,” I agree, and he lets the subject drop. Jestin smiles like he’s just won the Fool’s Festival. If he doesn’t stop pestering me, I’ll make sure he looks exactly like that — battered, as if he’d been thrown into Fae jail and forced to fight in the arena for decades to win back his freedom.
I’ll just need to find a few brutes still loyal to me, ones who won’t flinch at raising their hands against a Sand Lord. Given Jestin’s vicious reputation, that might not be easy.
He glides to the centre of the stage, his steps graceful and deliberate. The Fae in the room fasten their attention as they take their seats.
The dark, ugly feeling settles in place of the butterflies. I will never command attention like him. To him, being a leader is as natural as being a failure is to me.
Suck it up, you melted candle. You deserve it. You had your chance and you blew it.
“Happy Solstice!” He doesn’t need a voice amplifier. The Fae strain their ears so as not to miss a word from his lips.
I can’t blame them. I am the same.
“Dear friends, I want you to welcome Lady Seleste Berigander.”
A small round of greetings goes through the hall. Great. I fight the urge to shrink like a human penis in cold water. Humiliating but very entertaining to watch.
“I promised to address the matter of conscription. I apologise to all the suffering families.” What conscription?
“I am working on creating a solution to the situation. For now, let’s focus on the Summer Solstice.”
Was it his idea, or did the order come from Hanovel? Normally the Navatian line answers directly to the Royal Family. The Beriganders rarely interfere, leaving the Sand Court to rule as they please. But with no Berigander in the Capital, it must be Chief Gerald’s doing. Courts can govern freely on most matters except war.
A High Queen rarely meddles in daily affairs, though I’ve seen my grandmother intervene when punishments turned cruel or when human trafficking was involved. It’s a difficult trade to end when the humans ask for it. They sign a cyrograf, gain endless coin, glory, health, or pleasure, which are easy enough for us to provide. But every deal expires, and when it does, they are dragged into Zeznia. We drain their essence, and those who stay sane are questioned for any knowledge of their world.
Now, when rulers play dirty, there is no High Queen to stop them.
My stomach twists, my half-dead heart hammering against my ribs.
Once, Santorili and Hanovel stood bound by trust. Now, nothing holds. The absence of a Queen has crippled the Capital. Trade falters, and lesser rulers slip through reforms that would never have passed before. Even Jestin has taken advantage.
