Isla frowns at the doorway as she sits up. “Never knew cement could be quite so porous,” she muses while I keep staring daggers at the Crow male. With a sigh, she says, “Best leave while you still have air in your lungs, Lach.”
The male’s pale-brown complexion turns ashen, and then the whole of him blackens into smoke and streaks toward the skylight.
When I stare back at Isla, she has her arms crossed in front of her chest. She’s waiting for an explanation. Well, so am I. We stay locked in a wordless standoff for several minutes. When Ican’t take it any longer, I carry the book to my hands on a Faerie-made gust and crack it open.
“The Empress of Iceby Countess Zubrowa.” I skim the penned inscription at the bottom of the page, the one right above the author’s signature:“Happy birthday, dearest Olena.”
The name of my siblings’ nursemaid tightens my rib cage, but not only with grief…with aggravation.
Toward Olena for having aided and abetted Alyona.
Toward Svyato for having taken my sister in all those years ago.
Toward whoever is harboring Mestyla today.
I pull my thoughts away from the deceased half-bloods and missing niece, giving the novel my full attention. I leaf through the pages. Even though I don’t find the exact passage, I do find an equally racy one, which confirms Lachlano was reading from it and not trying to seduce my fiancée.
I toss the novel back onto the bed. “Is Lachlano a new participant in your book club?”
“No.”
“A fan of smut, then?”
“No.”
“Then why—” I roll my fingers to keep myself from destroying something in her room. “Why was he?—”
“Reading to me?” She rolls her lips before parting them around a hushed, “Because Naeva left.”
I frown. Here I thought I was rested, but evidently not, for I’m not connecting cause and effect.
Her eyes cut to the desk tucked along the wall. “I’m not good at reading. Or writing. Or spellcasting, for that matter.” After another long beat of silence, she adds, “Only my family and closest friends are aware. And a select few Siorkahd members.”
She rolls her lips.
“Could you please keep the news that the Lucin Princess is a half-wit to yourself?”
My head rears back, but then I’m crossing into her space, crouching, and pinching her chin between my fingers to carry her shimmering stare to mine. “First off, never fucking call yourself a half-wit. You are one of the most brilliant women I’ve ever had the pleasure of interacting with. As for telling people… I would never share any of your secrets with anyone, Isla.Never. They belong to you, and you, alone.”
The uncertainty clears from her gaze. “You’re so blinded by lust, Vizosh.”
I smirk. “Though lust does ride me, it does not blind me.”
I drop my forehead to hers and indulge in her untamed fragrance—sharp yet nectar-sweet, like a midnight wind stirring fallen blooms. It weaves into my breaths and slips deep, until it becomes a part of me that no time and distance can ever fade.
“It did make me want to hurt your friend, though, and I’m sorry for that. Like I’m sorry for charging into your room and lying about the wall of cement. I didn’t mean to give you a false sense of security, I just…I never expected either of us would want to use the passage. Meriam sealed it with wards. I believe it’ll let you pass with a blood-sigil, but I’m not certain it’ll let you through without one. Although, perhaps, I broke the magic seal?” When she’s still quiet, I ask, “Are you angry with me?”
She shakes her head, then links her arms around my neck and presses her lips to mine. True appeasement drapes over me then. I rake her body close and stand, devouring her mouth.
Gods, what I wouldn’t give to spend the next few months not being king.
“I like this new look,” she murmurs, her hands roaming over my shoulders as I back her into the painted floral backdrop.
“I was on my way to the training quarters to work out my stress”—I drag my mouth across her cheek before charting anew course down her neck—“when I thought of a much better channel than play-fighting.”
“My hand?”
“No.” I flick my fingers to propel the horizontal fabric screen into place over the skylight. While the likelihood of anyone peeping is low, I’d prefer no one—neither Crow norother—behold Isla’s naked body and what I plan to do to it. “Your cunt.”
