He sniffed the beverage first—a habit born of one too many festive surprises—but all he caught was the faintest whiff of citrus and something earthy, like sun-warmed grass.
Against his better judgment, he took a sip. The liquid hit his tongue with a deceptively innocent sweetness, like stolen summer peaches, before the tartness sparked—sharp as a lemon’s kiss, lingering just long enough to make his jaw clench. He coughed, blinking at the tankard.
“That’s…surprisingly good,” he admitted, rolling the taste on his tongue like a thought he wasn’t sure he should keep. He turned the cup as if its dull metal might reveal secrets. “Pineapple, you say?”
Darius’s grin widened, smug and devastating all at once. “One of several fruits, yes. It’s a blend.” His voice was smooth, a blade honed to perfection, and his eyes—gods, his beautiful eyes—gleamed with something Cedric couldn’t name. Triumph? Amusement? Or something far more dangerous, something that coiled around Cedric’s heart like a vice and sent heat licking up the back of his neck.
Cedric swallowed another mouthful quickly, more to busy himself than out of thirst, not trusting himself to meet that gaze for too long.
His gaze flicked downward as Darius lifted his cup. Something glinted in the candlelight. A gold ring. In all his years, Cedric had never seen his friend wear a ring. The metal gleamed against Darius’s skin, its ruby centerpiece catching the light like a smoldering coal.
“You wear rings now?” Cedric teased, nudging Darius’s hand with his knuckles.
Darius glanced down at it, flexing his fingers with a lazy shrug. “An early birthday gift from my mother,” he said, tipping his cup toward a nearby table where Lady Priscilla Valcairn sat, deep in conversation with a nobleman. “She insisted it would suit me.” His expression turned wry. “A symbol of responsibility or some such lecture I didn’t bother listening to.”
Cedric huffed a quiet laugh. “That sounds like her. And you.”
Darius tapped the ring absently against his cup. “Doesn’t it?” He swirled his drink. “She said it was my father’s. He brought it back from Revendar on his last expedition.” His tone was light, but Cedric caught the slight edge beneath it. “He passed not long after.”
Cedric didn’t need the rest of the story. Lord Valcairn had sought out the druids of Revendar for healing, but their magic hadn’t saved him. Whether they’d failed or simply refused, Darius had never forgiven them.
Rather than dwell on it, Cedric rolled his eyes, leaning back against the pillar. “Gods help us all when you start listening to your mother’s fashion advice.”
Darius grinned, knocking his cup lightly against Cedric’s. “Oh, Cedric,” he murmured. “You wound me.”
Cedric’s gaze drifted again—always, inevitably, betraying him—to Darius’s hair, mahogany strands gilded by lantern light, tousled just enough to seem effortless. A dangerous lie. Nothing about Darius was effortless. Every glance, every word, every move was honed for maximum effect. Cedric knew this, had always known this.
But still…
He knew the exact curve of Darius’s brow when scheming, the way his lips thinned during lectures—but this? The softness of his smile now, the quiet, almost disarming warmth behind his eyes? That was a far crueler weapon than any sharp remark or veiled threat. That was the trap Cedric had walked into too many times before.
And would walk into again.
Cedric’s pulse stuttered.
Stop. You’re drunk on idiocy.
“Did you do this?” Cedric asked, too abruptly. The hall’s din swelled around them—lutes twined with laughter, goblets clinking like discordant bells—but Darius’s reply cut through cleanly.
“Happy birthday. This will be a night you won’t forget.” Darius lifted his tankard in a toast. Cedric’s cheeks burned, and not from the drink.
Darius refilled his tankard without asking, the drink cascading in a golden stream. Cedric drank anyway, letting the sweetness blur the edges of his wariness. The warmth spread—first in his belly, then his limbs, loose and weightless. He caught his parents’ distant conversation, their faces crinkled with pride, and for a heartbeat, the world softened. The tapestries rippled like living things, their embroidered hawks soaring in the candlelit haze. Even the stone floor beneath his boots seemed to sway, as if the castle itself had taken a drunken lurch.
By the time Cedric stumbled into the corridor, the buzz in his skull had sharpened to a hive’s roar. Cold air struck his face, a mercy after the hall’s suddenly unbearable heat. He braced a palm against the wall. His mind felt like wool soaked in honey.
Somewhere behind him, Darius spun the treasury minister’s daughter in a whirl of silk, his laughter trailing like smoke. That sound—rich, smug, too much—threaded through Cedric’s mind, leaving a strange, aching tightness in its wake.
He blinked, trying to steady himself, but the floor swayed beneath his feet. I need to sit. Just for a moment.
When Cedric pushed himself upright, his legs buckled, and the thought shattered. He caught himself awkwardly, the world tilting around him.
He hadn’t had that much to drink. Had he?
His chambers loomed ahead, the oak door swimming in and out of focus. He made for it with grim determination, shouldering it open and stumbling inside. The fire had died down to embers, casting the room in dim smudges of charcoal and ash.
He fumbled off his shoes—one disappearing under the bed—and collapsed onto the mattress with a groan. The sheets were cold against his skin, but he barely noticed.
The pillow smelled of lavender. Or maybe that was the drink still twisting his senses. Gods, it was still clinging to him, coating his tongue like a spell meant to muddle his mind. His fingers clenched in the fabric beneath him.
