“Tell me,” she pressed, sharper now, “if we are forced to defend Sevrak, how soon can the Sagittarii be rallied from Vykenra?”
“Zeporah intends to strike the fort?”
“Imminently.”
A soft laugh spilled from him—wicked, dangerous.
“Your Ruakite cannot hold against an army of men?”
Her body moved before her mind caught up. She pressed her hand to his chest, trembling with truth.
How dare you.
And yet—the heat of him stole her breath. The steady thrum beneath her palm whispered of command, of something she could almost lean into if she let herself fall. She tore the thought away like a blade from skin.
“She summons dragons out of Oustinon, Xavien,” she forced out. “She called one inside Castle Rhidian.”
“Princess—”
“I was there,” she breathed.
“She entrapped me…”
Her voice dropped, breaking against the word.
“…in Vykenraven.”
Silence.
And then—
Something that felt like sin.
Her heart thundered beneath his stare.
The warmth in those dark brown eyes drained away.
Coldness.
Indignation.
Possession.
“Why did your father,” he said slowly, “withhold this from me?”
“We fled to Fyreglade, my lord.”
“Fled—”
The word fractured in his mouth. His jaw cut sharp as he looked away, then back again.
“You should have come here. To Amethyst. I have land enough for all your house.”
“The Senate would not honor such pretenses, Xavien. I am not queen yet, and you are still—”
“They will honor what I compel.”
Each word flew like an arrow, merciless, as if the mark had already been chosen.
