I flail, cursing gravity and the universe for conspiring in this series of mortifying spectacles when Declan’s arm slides firmly around my waist. In one effortless motion, he hauls me against him, my palms braced against thewall of his chest. Heat radiates through his sweat-damp shirt, my body slotting against his like this was the plan all along.
Neither of us moves as the market goes on around us, but it all blurs into static. The only thing I can feel is him. The solid press of muscle beneath fabric, the rise and fall of his breath, the steady thrum of his pulse against my hand.
Declan dips his head, his lips grazing close enough that his words skim the shell of my ear. “If you want me to touch you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “all you have to do is ask.”
Sparks crackle up my spine as I inhale the salty sweet tang of his skin.
Then an elbow jabs into my ribs. I jolt and spin around to find Tarek grinning like he’s just caught us making out behind the bleachers. “Feigning a fall to draw eyes before your performance? A bold tactic.”
I force a laugh, trying to shake loose the butterflies flapping in my stomach. “So, um, Tarek, about our performance…” My gaze lands on the Player, all sharp angles and painted red slash, cutting through the market with her retinue like a blade. “What happens if it doesn’t go well?”
“The queens see to it that the audience’s attention never wanders,” Tarek says easily as we give the Player’s crowd a wide berth.
“That’s…cryptic.”
Declan’s mouth quirks. “She doesn’t like cryptic.”
But Tarek doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he tosses his apple core into a brazier, wipes his hands on his trousers, and keeps walking. “All are born to perform, save those thequeens—or their ancestors—have chosen another path for. That was the Player’s fate.” His teeth flash in a cheesy grin. “And, as luck would have it, my family’s as well.”
Declan’s attention is fixed somewhere behind me, and he tears his gaze away long enough to ask, “You hungry?”
Before I can answer, my stomach growls loud enough to earn a laugh from Tarek. Declan’s already moving, striding to whichever stall piqued his interest without waiting for verbal confirmation.
I fall into step beside Tarek. “Somewhere along the way it was decided your family line was best suited to guard the kingdom?”
“The line of Duggermore, at your service.” He straightens, chin high, palm resting on his hip in mock formality. His eyes go wide. He opens his mouth, shuts it again, and spins in a circle. When he comes back around, his smattering of freckles stands out like dots of ink against his ashen complexion.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Did you lose something?”
“My sword!”
“Your sw—”
“Can the two of you find your way back to your tent and ready yourselves for tonight’s performance?” Tarek blurts, voice jumping an octave with panic.
I open my mouth to protest—I haveno ideawhere our tent is—when Declan reappears at my side with two steaming hand pies. He presses one into my palm. “I’ve got the sense of a homing pigeon.”
“Good,” Tarek says distractedly, scanning the crowd. “I’ll fetch you at sunset. And perhaps keep quiet about my…misplaced weapon.” He dashes off, muttering to himself.
I look down at the warm pastry. “What is this?”
“Try it,” Declan says, already taking another bite of his.
I sink my teeth into the golden crust. Buttery flakes give way to a filling that’s both savory and sweet, spiced with cinnamon and cumin, the vegetables tender enough to melt on my tongue.
My eyelids flutter shut, and before I can stop myself, I let out a contented hum.
When I open them again, Declan is watching me. His gaze lingers on my mouth, and heat crawls up my throat.
I snap my gaze back to the pie, pretending sudden fascination with its crimped edge. “I’ve eaten Michelin-starred meals that didn’t taste half this good,” I mutter, the words a little breathless despite my best efforts.
Declan’s smile deepens, but before I can read anything more in it, Cinder lets out a throaty trill and twines herself in figure eights around his ankles, tail flicking high, her purr loud enough to rumble above the market chatter.
Declan crouches, tearing off a bit of his hand pie and offering it to Cinder. She takes it delicately, a queen accepting tribute. He straightens and holds another piece out toward Fennel.
“Don’t feed him,” I scold, narrowing my eyes. “He’ll never leave, and I have no idea what to do with a donkey.”
Declan quirks a brow and pops the bit into his own mouth. “Pretty sure he has no intention of leaving anyway.”
