King Silas gestures to his servants, who step forward carrying a carved, wooden chest. “In honor of your hospitality, we bring gifts from Hedera. Treasures to please the senses, as we know such delights are cherished here.”
I take a step back, giving the servants room to place the chest before the queens’ velvet mattress. Ambra and Eosla scoot closer, their brows raised in anticipation.
The chest is opened, revealing bolts of silk in rich jewel tones—sapphire, ruby, and emerald—each fabric embroidered with ivy patterns that shimmer under the light like liquid luxury.
“Our skilled seamstresses have worked their fingers to the bone,” Silas explains, “to create the most exquisite and unique silks especially for you. There are also vials of perfumes crafted from rare flowers found only in the wild meadows of Hedera.”
One of the servants removes a polished, wooden box from the trunk, handing it to Queen Ambra with a bow. She opens it to find a collection of hand-carved hair ornaments inlaid with mother-of-pearl and gold.
Queen Eosla rises gracefully, padding barefoot upon the marble floor to inspect the offerings. She lifts a strand of emerald silk and runs it through her fingers. “Exquisite,” she murmurs, turning toward Ambra. “Don’t you think, my love?”
Ambra’s smile sharpens as she traces the wooden box with one finger. “Hedera always did have impeccable taste.”
The king nods to another servant, who unveils the dragon scales. Just like in Podrosa, the king has chosen to gift the royals with one gold and one onyx scale. The queens’ smiles widen as they gaze upon the rare items.
“King Silas,” Eosla purrs. “You have outdone yourself. We are humbled by your lovely gifts.”
“We look forward to hearing your proposal for your son,” Ambra adds. “But you must be exhausted from your travels. Please, follow Jalelle to your rooms. We know you are not accustomed to our climate, so we have provided clothing more suited for the heat, which you’ll find in your chambers.”
“Tonight we feast in our celebration tent,” Eosla says as she eases back onto the cushion. As soon as she’s seated, fingers and lips from the queens’ ensemble of lovers find her skin.
The king gives a crisp nod, but I catch the way his mouth tightens. These women unsettle him, as if he finds their boldness a challenge. And for some reason, I do, too.
ChApter
Twenty-Eight
The evening air is thick with the scent of rich, heady spices mingling with a sweet undertone of jasmine. Nadya and I follow Jalelle to the tent where the evening feast is taking place, Sir Holden trailing behind us. Except this isn’t any tent I’m used to. The structure is enormous. It towers above us—vast, sprawling, and shimmering under the light of the moon.
Inside, rich fabrics in shades of crimson and gold cascade down the sides, their edges embroidered with delicate patterns that twist like curling smoke. The air is thick with the scent of spiced meat, honeyed fruits, and the sweet tang of wine, mingling with the faint trace of incense that drifts lazily through the warm air. Soft music hums from one side of the tent—a melody of flutes and stringed instruments, sensual and slow, as if every note is meant to coax the body into motion.
Beside me, Nadya adjusts the gauzy scarf draped low over her shoulders, her dark curls spilling from a loose bun at the top of her head. Her brown skin, shining with glittered oil, contrasts beautifully against the golden silk dress the Bastosi queens gifted her. The gown is molded to her figure, just as mine is—too thin, too revealing for the mourning period, but a welcome respite in the Bastosi heat. Bastos observesdifferent mourning traditions than we do in the east, but at least my dress is black, so the eastern tradition isn’t completely ignored.
“Well,” Nadya murmurs under her breath, eyeing the clusters of people lounging on the floor, half-reclined against silk cushions. “No one can ever accuse them of not knowing how to enjoy themselves.”
I can’t argue with that. Everywhere I look, Bastosi courtiers move with a kind of effortless sensuality. Lovers—if they are even exclusive—share whispered secrets, bodies pressed close as they sip from jeweled goblets. Bare shoulders brush without hesitation, hands linger too long or disappear beneath clothing, and laughter swells as if nothing exists beyond the pleasures of this very moment.
Sir Holden stops near the entrance and takes his position to keep watch over me. He is immediately approached by a curious Bastosi lord holding a goblet. The handsome man begins asking Sir Holden questions, too low for me to hear.
A servant welcomes me and Nadya, ushering us forward toward a lavish spread of pillows and ground-level tables. I feel the others watching me as I approach. Though I’m glad to be out of the high-collared, long-sleeved, floor-length gown, I do find it unsettling that my shoulders and arms are bare and that the skirt of my thin, gauzy dress barely flows down to my knees. When we finally reach the section reserved for us, my heart stumbles in my chest.
Dante is already seated—broad-shouldered and impossibly composed in the middle of this decadent chaos. His black attire stands in striking contrast to the gilded fabrics around him, and the sharp angles of his jawline seem even more severe under the flickering candlelight. Instead of a tunic, he wears a silky, black vest that lies open to expose his muscular chest and abdomen. It’s so hard not to stare and admire his body.
I can feel the pull of him like gravity, and when his storm-grey eyes meet mine, the air between us seems to hum.
With no subtlety whatsoever, a servant gestures to the cushions beside him.
Of course.
Nadya quickly moves from my left to my right, forcing me to take the cushion directly next to Dante. When I flash her a look, she pretends she didn’t do it on purpose, batting her lashes at me in feigned innocence.
With a controlled breath, I lower myself beside Dante. As I settle, my thigh brushes his in the confined space, and every nerve in my body sharpens. He’s close—too close for me to be able to convincingly ignore his presence. I almost sigh at the feel of his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of my dress. I try to steady my breathing, but the air is thick, heavy with scents and sounds and the undercurrent of temptation that touches everything in Bastos.
“A fortunate coincidence,” he murmurs low enough that only I can hear.
I arch a brow, refusing to let my voice betray how much I feel his nearness. “Or a risky one.”
The corner of his mouth curves into a wicked smile, and my stomach flutters traitorously. His gaze travels down my body, and he tilts his head slightly.
