She narrowed her eyes at him. “Caelen Verelith used to point that out every time I had too much Fae wine. Ruined the fun before it started.”
A low, dangerous chuckle rumbled from him. “And who is Caelen Verelith?”
She hesitated only a beat. “Just a man from court who never stopped trying to convince me that we were a match.”
Jakobav’s mouth curved, slow and knowing. “Caelen,” he repeated, dismissive. “Unfortunate name.”
He took the bottle from her hand, his thumb grazing her knuckles. “Drink as much as you want, Princess. I’ll match you.”
He tipped the bottle back and drank deep, his other hand settling on her thigh, fingers squeezing just enough to make her pulse spike.
She let the smallest smile tug at her mouth. “Match me if you like, Prince. Just don’t cry about it when you can’t keep up.”
Hours blurred as they traded stories, his about growing up in the shadow of a crown, hers about her parents and the girl she used to be, until at some point, the fire dwindled to embers.
“Rekindle it,” he said, nodding toward the embers. “Show me what this Orchid soil does for you.” A sensual confidence laced his voice, and gods, it was doing something wicked to her.
She accepted the challenge without breaking eye contact, lifting her hand with the barest motion. Flame surged, bursting upward in a rush of fire that roared into a bonfire licking at the sky.
“Shit.” He moved fast, dragging her against him to shield the blaze as he pulled her into his lap.
They froze, breaths tangled, and then the tension snapped. Laughter spilled free, reckless and wine-loosened, until it shook through them both.
“Well,” he said, still holding her there, “now I’m intoxicated, and we just sent up a giant smoke signal, announcing our presence.” His mouth lifted with dry humor. “Maybe we should snuff it out and call it a night before I start a war.”
“I’d say that’s wise,” she teased, still catching her breath.
The risk was small; this stretch near Thirelle’s border was never patrolled. The alliance had always kept it unchallenged, at least before she left.
When the moment ebbed, she pushed to her feet, slipping from his lap and turning slightly away, but his hand caught her arm and pulled her back down, steady beside him on the log. His hand remained on her arm, and when he spoke again, the change in his voice was stark, cutting clean through the levity. “Ella, my father’s never waking up. He’s not sick or recovering. He’s in a coma. Before you, the plan was to survive the Claiming, announce the truth, take the crown, and throw everything into fortifying Dravaryn against the breaches.”
Ella’s gaze snapped to his. “And now?”
“Now it’s on hold.” His voice didn’t waver. “And I’m not one bit upset about it.”
Her chest tightened.
“You can’t put your life on hold for me.”
He leaned in, the firelight catching on the line of his jaw. “I can damn well do as I please.”
She shook her head, overwhelmed by the force of him, and found the only words that made sense. “Jake. Don’t. You’ve already made me your friend. Please don’t make me the villain.”
He went still, studying her for a long, burning moment. Then, “I’ll take you as a friend or villain,” he said, his voice deep enough to shiver through her. “I’ll take you any way you let me.”
The words hit low, molten and dangerous, her body recognizing the promise within.
37
FLAMES AND MERCY
The second bedroll hit the ground with a heavy thud, and Ella blinked at it, then at him, disbelief catching in her voice as she said, “Seriously?”
Jakobav didn’t answer. He crouched with a slow intensity, dark hair sliding forward as he worked at the leather strap, loosening it until the roll spilled open across the ground.
The fire cracked between them.
She crossed her arms and tried to hold her ground. “After all that…the wine, the stories, the…” She faltered, suddenly flustered, unable to summon a third thing. “You’re going to make me sleep over there?”
