Rakos side-eyes the tree.
Something about the talk of master strategists reminds him of Audric Sandry, first prince of Silaise. Rakos used to think tree magic sounded useless until he fought Prince Audric in the Long Summer War. Audric’s razor-sharp leaf storms nearly gouged Rakos from Sarka’s back more than once. And the Silaisan ground assault was impossible to defend against from above when Audric was on the field. Even searing the earth with dragonfire couldn’t completely stop the violent roots.
A sharp crack interrupts Rakos’s reminiscence, and the pavilion creaks over the singing contest. The whole canopy jolts as one pole suddenly sinks into the ground. Song fractures into shouts, and competitors and spectators alike scramble out of the way before the awning crashes down.
Rakos drags Bell out of the crowd’s way. “Do people not know how to build tents?”
“Oh, no,” Bell says. “The contest!” Thankfully, he doesn’t sound too disappointed.
“Forget the contest. Let’s see if—fuck!”
A familiar head of red hair flashes through the crowd, a familiar head of green hair following right behind. Swords sheathed on their backs, their black-rose festival crowns a strange contrast to the frosty expressions.
Zuzana and Indra, from Prince Vana’s drasgard. Rakos must not have killed Zuzana at the waystation after all.
Ducking his head, Rakos tightens his grip on Bell’s shoulder. “This way,” he bites out, though he still doesn’t know where to go.
“What is it?”
“Vana’s people are here. Come on, they probably won’t recognize…”
There’s a flaw in Rakos’s plans.
Zuzana and Indra might not recognize Rakos from a distance with his hair ruined like this. But they know what Bell looks like, and they know he and Rakos escaped together. Rakos can’t let them see Bell’s face any more than he can let them see his own. But running away would draw suspicion too.
Rakos yanks Bell into an alleyway and pushes him against the wall. Leans in, forearm slamming into the wood beside Bell’s head, between Bell’s face and the rest of the crowd.
Bell’s gasp brushes Rakos’s lips, and the dark alley hushes around them.
?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bellamy
All the breath slams from Bellamy’s body, and the night is suddenly frigid against his skin. Rakos surrounds him completely, from the arm braced beside his head to the thigh pressed against his. When Bellamy inhales, he tastes the honeyglass on Rakos’s breath.
He wants to taste more.
“Don’t move.” Rakos’s low order twists into Bellamy’s every nerve. “When they’re gone, we’ll jump over that wall.”
Bellamy doesn’t look at the indicated wall. He’s too distracted by the wall of a man in front of him, the rough stone behind him, the rapid thrumming of his heart. He lifts his head, and Rakos’s eyes shutter.
“Are they still there?” Bellamy asks.
Rakos’s long hair brushes Bellamy’s cheek. “They’re moving, but not fast enough.”
“Pity.” Bellamy touches Rakos’s neck, rubs his thumb over Rakos’s own quickening pulse. He wants to taste more. Maybe that isn’t so absurd after all. Rakos’s darkening gaze and the building heat spur Bellamy’s confidence. “If we’re pretending to kiss, we could play it a little more realistically.”
Rakos startles, then eases into a grin. The flowers in his hair make him look even more gloriously wild. “Could we?”
“Just kidding.” Bellamy bites his lip. “Unless…”
Rakos leans down.
Bellamy’s eyes close as their lips slide together. No hesitation. Nothing tentative. They crash together like lightning. A downbeat of wings rocketing Bellamy’s pulse into the sky. He doesn’t know when Rakos’s hands drop to his waist, erasing any distance between them.
Bellamy has never been kissed like this. Rakos plunders his mouth with confidence, and it’s the hottest thing Bellamy’s ever felt.
