Page 109 of On Brutal Thrones

I force myself from the water. The sun is warm against my wet skin, and my leathers are mostly dry, although they’ve gone stiff enough that getting back into them is its own trial. I shake the water from my hair and start tugging them on.

I’d give anything for soap. Oil for my skin. The scent of flowers instead of sweat, blood, and leather.

Soon.

If my three fiancés are interested in me like this, I can only imagine what they’ll think when I’m properly bathed and scented with all the ridiculous products my mother left behind.

I’m smiling at the thought of our wedding night when the river moves behind me. It’s just a splash, nothing alarming. I almost dismiss it as a fish or turtle.

Then every hair on my body rises.

The air changes.

It becomes heavier somehow, pressing against my skin and filling my lungs until drawing breath takes effort. The warmth of the sun disappears beneath a sudden crawling cold, and a deep pressure builds behind my eyes.

My body knows what’s behind me before my mind does.

I turn.

A man stands waist-deep in the river. Water runs in rivulets over broad shoulders and a perfectly sculpted chest, but there’s nothing mortal about the body in front of me. Thorian, Fenric, and Talon are strong, but their bodies were built through use. They have scars and freckles, marks and imperfections. Proof of battles fought and years lived.

This man looks carved. Too symmetrical. Too smooth. Too golden. Perfect in the way a statue is perfect, except the statue is breathing.

My stomach turns.

“Nice day for a little dip,” Valtor says.

His voice hits me almost physically.

Power rolls through it, low and immense, vibrating through the air and into my bones. My knees weaken before I lock them, and every instinct screams at me to bow.

To kneel. To make myself small before something so much greater than me.

I hate that instinct almost as much as I hate him.

Valtor’s beard drips with river water, though somehow it never seems wet. His crystal-blue eyes settle on me, and the weight of his attention is worse than the pressure in the air.

I’m alone with him.

I’ve stood before Valtor before, but never like this. The men are at the top of the hill, too far away to help if he decides to hurt me. He’s close enough to touch me. Close enough to kill me before I could draw a breath.

My thoughts scatter. My mother. Lyra. The men at the top of the hill. Then I realize my leathers only cover my lower half, and I snatch up the top and hurriedly pull it over my chest.

“Don’t be modest on my account,” Valtor says lazily.

His gaze travels over me. Slowly. Appreciatively.

My skin crawls.

“I assure you, Lady Nocturne, I’ve seen far more than that.” His mouth curves. “Though I can certainly understand why my son has become distracted by you.”

Revulsion crawls up the back of my throat.

I yank the leather into place. “What do you want?”

The words come out sharper than they should.

For one terrible second, the entire river seems to go still. Not calm. Still. The current stops around Valtor’s body. The leaves overhead cease rustling. Even the insects seem to fall silent.