Page 40 of The Poison Princess and the Lord of Misrule

“I’m fine,” I promise her. “But I need something from you.” I lower my voice. “The small vial, the one with the dwale with the valerian that you keep in your skirts.”

The dwale is a nightshade-based sleep draught. Brewed with valerian, a calming herb, it’s a potent sedative designed to put one under fast.

There’s a long pause before she says, “You need it for yourself…right now?”

“No, for Aldric.”

Her face purses, worry lines carving her brow. “I saw what he did during the dance. Oh, Sera. Did he?—”

I shake my head. “It’s to ensure that he won’t later, when he’s too impaired to know better.” Not that I think Aldric has any honor in the matter regardless, sober or otherwise.

And it’s only a small lie to Isolde.

Her mouth tightens, not wholly convinced for my safety, but she reaches into the folded sash at her waist and produces the small dark vial.

“All you need is three drops,” she instructs. “While he’s a big man, any more will make him vomit it up before it takes.” She presses it into my palm, her fingers closing over mine.

I nod once. “I understand.”

She releases me, and I tuck the vial into the seam of my bodice. As I hurry back toward the great hall, I reach behind my back and undo the laces, working them loose.

I weave a path through the crowd, first searching out Ren, where he’s seated in his mock throne. He’s beingentertainedby the court jester, receiving the ridicule in the king’s place. The jester can say the most insulting things against the king, as long as the real king isn’t the brunt of the jokes.

I walk to the high table, finding Aldric already there, the feast resumed. I sit at his right hand, feeling his suspicion permeating the air around us. He turns to me and cups my face. His thumb swipes beneath my bottom lip, clearing the smudge of my lip stain away.

My pulse riots.

“Wine,” he remarks, wiping the smudge.

“Thank you, My Lord.” I hold his sinister gaze, letting nothing show in my features, not even the disdain mounting within me.

He studies me another moment, his grip firming. “Where did you run off to before.”

I swallow, letting a flush rise highon my cheeks. “My laces…” I trail off, lowering my voice only for him. “I was searching for Isolde. The dance quite undid me…loosening the laces of my dress, it’s coming undone.”

A slow, satisfied smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. He drops his hand. “Turn around,” he commands.

I do so, keeping my back straight as his hands grasp my waist. My breath catches at the feel of his hands roaming up, then his fingers dig into the laces. He draws them taut, snapping the bodice tight around my middle, my breasts.

And he’s dexterous with it, his fingers move with a sure, leisurely confidence as he draws the laces together, cinching them tighter.

I hold my spine straight, drawing in shallow breaths. “You’re quite good at this.”

“You’ll find I’m good at many things, love.” His voice drops low at my ear, threaded with dark amusement. “Lacing. Unlacing…” His fingers slide down the row, testing each crossing. “There’s a particular pleasure in the snug fit, the way the silk bites. The way the lungs have to work for each breath.” He pulls another lacing tight, and the air leaves me in an involuntary sound, earning a groan of approval from him.

Aldric drags his knuckles down the bare skin between my shoulder blades, and I can’t help but shiver.

“Hold still,” he says, and proceeds to work the second row. Slower now, his thumb finding the small dip at the base of my spine and pressing there as he tugs the silk, and a fresh wave of unwanted heat climbs my throat.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “My beautiful, enchanting Threnmere girl.”

His mouth grazes the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. The threat of a kiss, his mouth just hovering. After his fingers cinch the final crossing of laces, he ties it off, the knot quick and practiced. Then he reaches around, his palms smoothing slowly up the silk along my ribs as if appreciating his work.

“Now,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “How does that feel.”

I exhale slowly. The bodice is so tight I have to draw breath from the very top of my lungs. My pulse beats hard against the binding. The vial against my ribs has shifted, pressing hard against my chest.

I turn in my chair, letting the high slit of the skirt part along my thigh as I face him. His eyes drop, heated as they climb back up at a slow, deliberate pace, taking in the way the silk grips, the way my breasts press full above the neckline, the laces framing every curve of me.