Draylon took another swig of the awful concoction in his glass, vision growing hazy. He lifted his glass. “To the death of my dreams, for tomorrow, I’ll be shackled to the enemy.” He drank deeply. If Father hadn’t forced the issue and they’d met at a ball or a fair, would Draylon have sought Yarif’s company? Yarif was beautiful. Fiery.
Possibly treacherous. Draylon probably would have sought him out for a dance or a tryst in the gardens—not for permanence, though.
One of the grooms had given Draylon a good once-over the last time he’d checked on Gryphon. Not the way to start his rule, dallying with someone who might make trouble for him later. As a commander, no one expected favors. Now?
If only he could talk to Avestan or Rufe. He’d take May for company. Anyone to commiserate his changed circumstances with. Even the tailor who’d finished last-minute adjustments on Draylon’s wedding finery would do, and he spoke some barely understandable version of Glendoran.
Draylon tossed the glass aside, swilling from the bottle instead.
Mourning his lost life.
Chapter Twelve
Yarifnursedanachinghead, sitting before a mirror in his rooms while his manservant twisted him this way and that, dressing him for a day he’d rather sleep through.
Small consolation for Yarif to be marrying someone likely even less thrilled about the matter. Yet May spoke highly of Draylon on the few occasions Yarif found reason to speak with her, and she wasn’t one to be swayed by a pretty face and prettier words.
Large-ish nose notwithstanding.
Yarif would proceed with caution.
Damnation. The emperor’s son. The son of the man who’d doomed Father, Baro, and many other of Yarif’s countrymen. Soon Draylon would be crowned king of Renvalle, with Yarif as consort. Regardless of parentage, Draylon Aravaid would be king.
Well, Yarif always knew he’d been destined for consorthood. Social climbers would say he’d done well to land a king rather than a baron or merchant.
What would the honeymoon be like? Yarif shivered, thinking of all the muscles hiding under Draylon’s loose tunic. Oh, to see him in a pair of tight leather breeches like northern tribes wore in the winter months or the ceremonial folded lengths of cloth that left one’s lower legs bare.
Yarif might never trust him, but he had to admit his soon-to-be-husband possessed a fantastic physique. Doing his duty hopefully wouldn’t be a significant hardship, and then Yarif would be free to do as he chose.
Besides, would Draylon even want a relationship beyond the consummation of the marriage? Did he have a lover already? Cormiran custom allowed only one legal spouse, be they a man or woman. That didn’t mean Draylon didn’t have scores of lovers.
The way he and Captain Rufe eyed each other…
No. There would be no room for jealousy. After all, Yarif kept his life and his siblings. Anyone raised in a royal household knew the importance of keeping up appearances. With the type of allowance Yarif negotiated, he’d not want for anything, though he’d asked for an excessive amount—expecting a resounding “no,” but needing to save for a time when he, Emile, or Adrina were in need.
Would Draylon want children? Yarif hoped he’d name one of the twins as heir, but rumor said the emperor wasn’t too fond of queendoms, and putting another DiRici on the throne might not go over well.
Oh, deities. What if Draylon was a brutal lover prone to hurt another for pleasure? Yarif had heard rumors of such. There was a God of Pain and Pleasure, after all. His likeness graced signs signifying certain types of bordellos.
Yarif just had to sleep with his rapier—and ensure his new husband understood how accurately he threw knives.
“Stop fidgeting,” Berram growled near Yarif’s ear, “or I’ll never finish.”
Yarif gave a sheepish shrug, then focused on being still while his valet dressed his hair.
The door opened, and Adrina rushed inside, blue fabric floating around her. She squealed and spun, making the skirt flare out. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”
“Just you, love,” Yarif replied, then returned to the mirror at Berram’s throat clearing. At least someone saw today as a joyful occasion.
Emile came in at a more sedate pace, dressed in dark blue velvet knee breeches and a coat embroidered with the family crest. Adrina’s lighter-colored dress matched the twins’ eyes.
“How come he gets a crest, and I don’t?” Adrina whined.
Only males wore family crests. Another inequality Yarif hoped to fix one day. “Because you got a beautiful dress. I’d pick fine clothes over a crest any day, wouldn’t you?”
Like Adrina, Yarif also didn’t get a crest. From today forward, he’d wear the symbol of the Aravaids.
Adrina smiled and nodded, creating a rustling sound by swishing her skirt back and forth. “Are you ready?” She wore a sapphire from Yarif’s mother since her own mother didn’t bother with sharing heirlooms.
