And nothing in it for him, this time.
The knife in my hand feels suddenly heavy. Slowly, I sheathe it, but leave the clasp open if I need to act fast.
My voice scrapes out low as I ask Sabine, “So now, what? Let him go? Give him a fucking title and satin sash?”
Sabine paces in front of the throne, her brows pulled in tight. I watch her closely, fighting to keep up a brave front. All of this—this gods-damnedmess. I’m tired of it, down to my fucking bones. Dammit, I miss the way things used to be.
From the looks of it, she does, too.
She stops in front of the throne, and a change seems to come over her. It’s small. Almost imperceivable, but I know her better than my own reflection.
A glint of wildness flashes in her eye. Her fey pulses brighter, just for a moment.
She cocks her head and asks in a deep, velvety rumble, “Are you loyal to me, Rian?”
Rian takes a second to clock her strategy, the gears turning behind his eyes. Then, he leans back, eyes hooded, half a smirk hanging on his lips.
“Always,” he says. “Songbird, Sabine, Solene. Glory to all of you. Glory to whatever you fucking turn out to be next.”
Sabine glances at me—a question or a reassurance, I’m not sure—and then holds out her hand to Rian, her wedding ring flashing in her own glowing silver light. She flashes her incisors. “Prove it.”
Rian’s breath catches, unsure, but only for a fraction of a moment. Then, he leans forward, taking his time now, head bowed to her. He wraps his fingers around her hand and kisses the ring, letting his lips linger on the cool bite of silver.
His fucking lips are on my woman.
I shift from foot to foot, muscles tight, heart hammering like a damn battering ram. Sabine comes around the throne and rests a soft, reassuring hand on my shoulder. Her soft eyes meet mine. “Trust me, Basten.”
I bite back my jealousy, crack my neck, and let out a grunt.
She smiles softly, a mischievous twinkle in her eye, and dips down to slowly raise her skirt to mid-thigh. She toes off her right boot, then extends her beautiful foot, wiggling her perfect toes.
She clears her throat pointedly at Rian.
He doesn’t move, his lips parted in a half-question, a touch of disbelief in the way his gaze flicks from Sabine to me.
A drip of sweat rolls down my temple. It isn’t warm in the throne room, but my clothes feel tight. Restrictive. I can’t quite seem to catch my breath.
“You want me to—” Rian starts.
“Are you loyal or not?” I slam my hand against the back of his head, pushing him off the throne onto his knees.
He winces but quickly recovers, the vexed look still dancing across his features. As though he expects me to wrap my hands around his throat at any moment and choke him out.
Gods be damned, I bet he’dlikeit.
He starts to lower to his hands, but he doesn’t move fast enough for my liking, so I dig my boot onto his back until he’s on all fours, prostrate before Sabine.
“I, well…” he chuckles, starts again, this time with his perpetual trace of irony. “I’m your servant, songbird.”
But there’s something different in the way his voice breaks at the end. As if, for once, he actually means it.
He lowers down and presses a kiss to her toes.
Still lowered, an inch from the floor, he tilts his head and murmurs, “Anywhere else you want me to kiss you, songbird?”
There’s a challenge to his voice now. A slick confidence, like he’s holding a shit hand at Basel but is ready to bluff his way to win the whole pot.
His eyes slide to mine, testing me, as he trails his lips over the arch of her foot to her ankle. He runs a reverent hand up her calf to her knee.
