“Thank you so much,” I reply, taking the gifts.
When she’s gone, I close the door and hurry to the desk. Shoving Neri off its edge, I set the jar on the desktop and pick up the pretty gold letter opener to unseal the envelope.
“It’s an invitation to a wedding tomorrow night.” I glance up at him as he takes the jar in his hand and tugs open the cork stopper. A flurry of gold dust swirls between us. I cough. “What is that?”
Holding my gaze, he tips the jar so I can see the contents.
“Gold dust? Is everything here made of gold? What the bleeding devils do we do with it?”
He smiles and dips his finger inside, then he reaches out and drags that finger down the center of my chest where my stupid tunic keeps coming untied.
I jerk away before he gets too far and tie it again.
He lifts the jar to his nose and inhales like he’s smelling a rose. “Fever lilac dust. An aphrodisiac that’s part of wedding ceremonies here. I’ve been covered in this so thoroughly that my golden, godly ass fucked a woman for a week.”
I toss the invitation aside and grab the jar and cork and stuff that damn thing back inside before rubbing the dust from my chest as best I can. Just from inhaling it, and that little bit of gold on my sternum, I’m tingling in places I should not be tingling, not with Neri around.
“Get out.” I sling my finger toward the door. “Get out now.”
Neri smiles and laughs, leaning closer. “Is someone hot and bothered?” My tunic ties come undone again, and my shirt falls open. “Need some time alone?”
That bastard. Where is a dagger when I need one?
I reach for the letter opener, hold it to his throat, and start walking him toward the door. “Get out. Get out, get out, get out!”
He pauses, his hand on the ornate knob, his smirk enough to make me murderous. “Have fun,” he says, “but be careful.” He takes a long inhale, and his eyes flare. “I can tell it doesn’t take much of that dust to get you wet and ready.”
I rear back, but Neri wisely slips into the hall before I impale Joran’s face on the end of a letter opener.
I slam the door and lean my back against it, clutching the letter opener between my breasts, panting like I’ve run a race, even as my blood hums with a tickle of desire.
There is no question. Dealing with a god is, in fact, the worst thing I’ve ever done. I hope Colden appreciates this.
61
THE PRINCE WITH NO NAME
The Eastland Territories
City of Quezira
Min-Thuret, Prince’s Chambers
* * *
“Dinner? Actual food and not someone’s soul? This is an odd occurrence. Are you planning on poisoning me?”
Colden sits in the chair across from me, flapping his linen napkin before laying it across his lap. I sent him a change of clothes, so he wears a fine pewter tunic and dinner jacket with silver embroidery at the cuffs and collar. He’s bathed again, and he smells like rosewood and musk. I almost hate myself for how much I like it.
“You always insist that I mean to kill you,” I say, carefully cutting into my lamb.
“Because that’s what you mean to do,” he replies, taking up his fork and knife. “Or you did when you first brought me here. You didn’t feed me for a week, damn you.”
After a bite, I grab the wine and tilt the bottle to fill his glass. “Perhaps I’m reconsidering things.”
He spears a stewed carrot on the end of his fork. “How so? You’re reconsidering sacrificing me to taunt Fia? I somehow doubt daddy Thamaos will be thrilled to hear that. I’d bet my throne he’s the one who told you to use me in the first place.”
I don’t rile at his words. I have a choice to lay before him. We shall see what he decides.
