The way Seren steps back and forth from the subject throws Nevander off balance. He’s forgetting his place. Or worse, resenting his place. Putting Seren on the throne means exposing him to other people’s schemes.
Too many eyes will covet Seren’s delicate strength.
“Besides,” Seren adds. “I don’t find it attractive to curse a servant to a year of silence.”
Too many clawed fingers will dig into his kindness.
“A year of silence is a gentle consequence,” Nevander says, “as these things go.”
Seren winces. “I thought you might say that.”
Nevander should conceal his desire to rip Gevain’s throat out, a far bloodier silencing. “Marriage is usually temporary. A few years or decades, depending on the agreement. There are no magical effects beyond the binding power of each spouse’s promises. Fae might marry for love without the commitment of a lifebond. Or to entrap mortals and lesser creatures. Or for political reasons, among the high fae.”
Seren touches the waterfall. Liquid ripples, disturbed but unbroken. “How are you so good at this?”
Nevander isn’t used to being so off balance. Yet a strange familiarity echoes the water. “Your Highness?”
“Restraint. Hiding.” Droplets cling like gems to Seren’s fingers. “Let me feel it.”
“What do you want to feel?” Nevander asks, even though he knows the answer. Because Seren’s attention is dangerously fascinating.
Seren scatters the droplets. Drawing closer, he has to look up to meet Nevander’s gaze, but his presence is subtly overwhelming. “Whatever boils beneath that stern face. You hide so well, but it’s still there, isn’t it?”
“I’m not angry at you,” Nevander says—a mistake. Confirmation, if incomplete. Blame the inches vanishing between them. A delusion blooms that Seren can slip past Nevander’sshields after all. That Seren tastes Nevander’s desire, and his next step will end in a kiss.
Seren smiles, and that familiarity crystallizes. “Show me anyway.”
He guides a conversation as deftly as his mother. Except he’s even better at knocking Nevander off balance. That deceptive innocence, that intoxicating sense of wonder. Enough to make one forget that despite his youth, Seren understands manipulation. He was raised by liars, after all.
Thank the spirits Nevander hasn’t sworn obedience.
“No,” Nevander says.
The refusal doesn’t seem to bother Seren. “Too personal?”
Yes. But more importantly— “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Seren touches Nevander’s chest. “I can’t feel this, but I still don’t like seeing you upset.” He jerks back, flustered. “Not that you have to be happy all the time. I mean, that sounds nice, but forcing happiness isn’t healthy. I don’t want to control you—your emotions.”
That correction could mean nothing, or everything. Nevander touches the wet fingerprints left on his armor, imagining traces of Seren’s shimmering skin. “You should fear the reverse—that I’m controlling you.”
Seren tilts his head. “How many audiences have you declined on my behalf?”
Thirteen. “None worth mentioning.”
“I would have accepted them all,” Seren says. “Which is precisely why you should filter them for me.”
“That gives me a lot of power,” Nevander says.
“Does that put you at risk?” Seren asks, which isn’t the point.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Nevander says. He’s never been afraid of risking himself.
“Then I’m fine with it.” Wistfulness softens Seren’s face. “Haelwen never gave up much power, did she?”
The very concept sits uncomfortably. “She kept herself above everyone.”
“I don’t want to rule like her,” Seren says. “She sounds lonely.”
