Eimarille pressed her hand against Terilyn’s hip through the layers of fabric she wore, far fewer than was typically favored by the courtiers. But it gave her room to move in defense of Eimarille when needed. She stroked her hand downward, palm gliding over the shape of a holster strapped to her lover’s thigh beneath the gown.
“Do you have anywhere you need to be?” Eimarille asked, looking up at Terilyn’s narrow face.
“I’m yours to command, as I always have been,” Terilyn replied.
“Then lift your skirts, darling.”
Terilyn sucked in a breath, a faint flush pricking across her cheeks. She moved with a grace that always fascinated Eimarille, reaching to gather her skirt in bunches and yank it up to her hips, showing off her shapely bare legs. She never wore stockings, finding them too constricting, and the only one to ever see her like this—peeled apart in layers—was Eimarille.
The knife in its flat leather sheath on her right thigh was secured by thin straps connecting to a slim, butter-soft leather belt wrapped around her waist beneath the gown. On her left was a derringer secured in a holster that always went unnoticed beneath the gowns she wore. Eimarille trailed her fingers up warm, scarred skin until she could hook her fingers over the delicately woven underwear Terilyn wore. The fabric slid free, falling down her legs and over her weapons under Eimarille’s guidance.
“You’ll want to brace yourself,” Eimarille said.
Terilyn’s lips twitched at her words. “Shall I now?”
She still hopped onto the desk without looking, rattling the teacups on their saucers, but nothing spilled. Terilyn gathered the skirt of the gown close, lifting one foot to brace her heeled boot against the armrest of Eimarille’s chair. The position opened her up, and Eimarille swayed forward on her seat to kiss Terilyn’s inner thigh, one hand resting on the other woman’s knee.
Eimarille’s shoulders pressed Terilyn’s legs wider as she ducked beneath the twisted fabric of the skirt. Eimarille licked a stripe over the softness of her entrance before sucking lightly at the sensitive clit, tongue flicking over it rapidly. The sharp, indrawn breath from Terilyn was followed by gentle callused fingers settling over the back of Eimarille’s neck beneath her hair, tangling with the diamond necklace she wore.
They’d had each other like this last night, amidst silken sheets and softly glowing gaslight, the curtains drawn to block out a world Eimarille had stolen. Like then, she dipped her mouth lower, sliding her tongue into wet heat that always tasted sweet to her. She danced her fingers up Terilyn’s thigh, sliding two inside her lover before angling her mouth back up to tongue at Terilyn’s clit.
Eimarille licked and teased and curled her fingers deep over and over until Terilyn came with a soft cry, hand heavy now on Eimarille’s neck, body pressing hard against her mouth and fingers. When Eimarille finally raised her head, her lips and chin were slick from her lover’s release, the evidence of it glistening between Terilyn’s legs.
Heavy-lidded eyes stared down at her, the flush to Terilyn’s face beautiful. Eimarille loved her like this in the aftermath—languid and soft in a way the Blade rarely let herself be in the defense of Eimarille’s life.
She braced her hands against the desk on either side of Terilyn’s hips, rising to better kiss her properly. Terilyn licked into her mouth with a sureness that Eimarille had always missed when it’d been Wesley kissing her. Eimarille reluctantly pulled away, ignoring the pulsing heat between her own legs for the day’s duty ahead.
Eimarille bent to retrieve Terilyn’s underwear and helped put it back on, pressing a finger flat against the center once the fabric was in place, feeling it dampen at her touch. With a sigh, she pulled her hand away. “I’ve a meeting soon with the new prime minister.”
“I’ll have the servants prepare the Gold Parlor.”
The Cobalt Room was still undergoing hasty renovations after Eimarille had damaged it when she removed the country’s previous ruling bodies. The royal architects had assured her it would be ready for use in about a week. Eimarille had conducted meetings in far less grand surroundings over the years.
“I suppose I ought to wear my crown.”
Terilyn smiled slightly as she slid off the desk and let go of her skirt, the fabric falling back down around her ankles. “The new prime minister knows who you are with or without it. They all do.”
Terilyn leaned in for a kiss Eimarille always granted her before sweeping out of the office, off to do Eimarille’s bidding.
Eleven
SOREN
The acrid stench of smoke still clung to Soren’s field leathers and to his hair, lingering in his lungs. He thought he could still taste ash in the back of his throat. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t smelled before as a warden, but it made him worry about Raiah.
At the height of summer, in the expanse of the Southern Plains that stretched between Calhames and Karnak in Solaria, the ground was covered in prairie grasses where the earth wasn’t cracked. It was nothing like the charred circle he’d left behind near the way station some days ago. That mess had reminded Soren vividly of the quarry he’d been forced to cleanse outside Bellingham—a burn scar deep enough that nothing would grow for seasons.
The thrum of his velocycle’s engine was loud but not loud enough he couldn’t hear the sniffles coming from the ride-along seat behind him where Raiah sat. Grimacing, Soren slowed to a stop, tires kicking up dust that the sluggish breeze stole away. He kicked down the stand and switched the engine off before swinging his leg over the velocycle to dismount it. He could ride for hours on end, but his passenger needed a rest break.
Soren’s skin still felt too tight over his bones, the pressure in his chest from using starfire long since faded. He could feel the echo of it when he breathed sometimes. Soren flexed his gloved fingers, wincing at the feel of leather moving against still-tender skin. He shoved the discomfort aside in favor of the duty of care he owed the teary-eyed little girl he’d promised to protect.
Imperial Princess Raiah Sa’Liandel, of the House of Sa’Liandel, looked up at him through the child-sized brass goggles she wore, helmet still in place. Her cheeks were damp from tears and made muddy by dust kicked up from the velocycle.
She hadn’t been harmed during their wild escape off the steam train and the time spent between then and now traversing the Southern Plains. They’d left behind the smoking remains of racing carriages and an ornithopter when they escaped from the people sent after them. Soren had driven into the back roads of Solaria because travel by way of a steam train could no longer be trusted.
Peoplecouldn’t be trusted, not when their loyalty could be subsumed by mind magic and clockwork metal hearts.
Neither, really, could the Imperial princess, not with the secret of starfire Soren desperately needed to carry alone. Only, he couldn’t be sure if she’d kept her eyes shut during the attack or if she hadn’t. If she’d seen the starfire he’d cast—clumsily and desperately wielding the mark of royalty when he was a warden—then he’d somehow have to lie to her.
