“Let me in,” Tassarion demanded under his breath from where he leaned between the doorframes.
“No.”
I siphoned blackfire from the wells of my ethèr and internally directed the flame to the veil. I strengthened the barrier with my fire. The soul jumped back, shaking its hands after being burned. I would not yield. This veil wouldn’t fall until I was ready to let it.
I took a good look at the King of Mortevain. My body flushed with heat. A platter of plantains and griot sat in my lap. The delicious aroma of fried banana and pork, drenched in the juices of piklìz—spicy mixed cabbage—couldn’t overshadow the imposing, intoxicating fragrance of cedarwood, cinnamon and smoke emanating from the entrance of the bedchamber.
Tassarion’s nostrils flared, his eyes blazing with need, as he stared at me while I ogled him.
“Let mein.” His voice was rich, guttural, raw. It strained to be contained. Like he was fighting a beast that was begging to be unleashed.
“No,” I answered, shaking my head.
The bedcloud swung, the billows under my body darkening. The candles dimmed, drowning us in cozy light. I could think of several things to do to the king in this ambience. He was dressed in sable, fitted leathers. Tall onyx boots. An elegant ebony cape that fell lavishly to the floor. He wore his silver crown with steel-blue jewels that matched his eyes while his arms were crossed, an assortment of silver rings on his fingers beside our wingbinding band. He was devilishly ravishing. A haunting abyss of sin I wanted to dive into and explore. I bit my bottom lip, trying to exercise restraint.
The chamber was quiet, but the heated tension building in the chasm between the king and me was reaching a breaking point. Tassarion didn’t speak, his eyes shifting from blue to black, then back to blue.
“Were you looking for something, mi Roi?”
I pushed several braids out of my face, looking at him. At how he breathed. How he fought to maintain his self-control. How he was domineering and prepossessing, unraveling me from within without a word or a touch.
“You’ve been avoiding me for almost a week.” His eyes darkened. “Obsidian told me you were in the garden, then you asked to be brought back here and you weren’t to be bothered. Is everything to your liking? The food, the bedchamber, your view of Ouanaviel?”
I watched him, amused. Tilting my head, I took large bites of pork and piklìz, the spicy slaw flaming my nostrils. I remained quiet for a long time. When Tassarion fluffed his wings once, twice, I finally spoke.
“You didn’t fly across Everthorn Manor, which is arguably three times the size of all the castles I have ever seen in my life, just to come here and make small talk, mi Roi. Out with it. Why are you really here?”
I went back to eating my food. Tassarion answered with a level of impatience that immediately made me want to scratch his eyes out.
“It’s time for the Opèr.”
I snapped my gaze to him as I chewed the rest of my bite.
“The Opèr,” I repeated.
He tilted his head. Crossed his arms. Looked at me below long lashes, his brown skin glowing like earth, covered in all those midnight leathers.
“The Opèr.”
“Okay. What’s that got to do with me?”
His lips curved into a frown.
“Get dressed. You’re going with me.”
“I will go nowhere with no one. Now that that’s out of the way, was that all?”
I went back to my plate, finishing up my plantains and pork.
“Get. Dressed.”
Tassarion’s low voice curled over my shoulders, seeping into my skin. I shuddered at its touch, but didn’t move. It was a shame for him, even in the face of kings, I never backed down. Without looking up at him, I waved a dismissive hand.
“No,” I leaned over the edge of the bedcloud, reaching for my goblet filled to the brim with angelwine. “Enjoy yourself, mi Roi.”
“Everburning Hèls,” he rumbled. “Nahomie, I am trying very hard to do this the nice way.”
“That sounds like a personal problem. Do I want to go to the opera? Yes.” I took another bite. Chewed, swallowed. “With you?” I waved my fingers. “No. Now leave me be.”
