I jerk and see Sevrin watching me.
“I’m fine.”
He grins. “Are you?”
Not really.
“Okay, I’m a little nervous,” I admit.
“I’ll be here with you. Just remember that.”
“Will you be here for me too,big boy?” Lucien asks, fluttering his lashes.
I groan and punch him in the arm, but at least I’m smiling now.
The path climbs a tall hill, and there it is, a long, low house, black as oil, with a roofline like the blade of a knife. The walls are decorated with bones, not human, but small ones from fish, birds, and something with too many legs. There are runes painted over the doorway, looping and sharp, and a large flag.
Sevrin squares his shoulders and marches up, taking the steps rapidly. I get the feeling he’s preparing himself for something, but I’m not entirely sure what. Which brings a nervous flutter to my stomach. At the top, the door opens before he can knock.
A woman stands in the doorway. She’s maybe thirty, maybe twenty; it’s hard to tell, because she’s carved out of muscle and fury and something else that I can’t quite name. Her hair is black, tied back in a brutal braid, and the sides of her head areclosely shaved. Her skin is the same shade as Sevrin’s, her eyes the exact same gold.
She’s wearing leather armor that’s battered, patched, and streaked with old blood. There’s a wicked knife at her belt, and a string of beads and teeth around her neck. She looks Sevrin up and down, then says, “Finally.”
He grins. “Oh, sister, did you miss me that much?”
She lunges forward and hugs him, so hard that it looks like it knocks the wind out of both of them. “Asshole,” she mutters. “Glad you’re not dead.”
He hugs her back. “Me too.”
She pulls away and fixes her gaze on us, on me, on the princes, on the kids that followed us up here. “Who are they?” she asks, voice clipped.
“The men are part of our bond. My bride’s other husbands.” Sevrin points to the princes, one by one. “Prince Alaric. Prince Lucien. Prince Gareth.”
Each gets a look, a glare, a grunt, followed by, “I’m Princess Aeralyn.”
“Andthis,” he says, turning to me, “is my wife, Queen Harper.”
You could hit a tree with a thunderbolt, and it wouldn’t be as loud as the silence that follows.
The woman stares at me, eyes narrowing to knife slits. She says nothing. For a second, I think maybe she didn’t hear. Then she nods, once, sharply. “You picked a good one,” she says. “Strong nose. A fighter’s stance.”
I smile. “Thank you?”
She grins. “Welcome to Volcaris, sister.”
Before I can process that, there are footsteps behind her and two more women spill out onto the porch. One is shorter, bright-eyed, her long hair brushed lovingly over her shoulders; theother is older, at least in her fifties or sixties, with a mane of curls and a curious expression. Both have Sevrin’s eyes.
The younger one, a woman in her thirties, I think, shrieks, “Sevrin!” and throws her arms around Sevrin, nearly taking him off his feet.
The older one shakes her head, but her lips twitch. “He’s not just back, Isaris. He’s brought company.”
Isaris looks me up and down, then sniffs. “Is she… your wife?”
Sevrin looks at me, then at her, and says, “She is. She’s a dragon rider. And a warrior.”
Isaris’s jaw drops. “No way.”
“Yes way,” I say, and she laughs, delighted.
