Page 92 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Gavriel ignored her, quickening his pace until he reached the dimness of the corridor beyond. The music began to fade. The pressure in his mind eased. He began to feel better.

Until halfway down the hall, a chill crawled along his skin.

Gavriel did not need to turn to know another piece of his soul was to be flayed.

“Leaving so soon, my darling?” Drifah cooed.

He faced her slowly. “I meant to retire early.”

Her mouth dipped in a show of disappointment. Then the full force of her magic struck. A storm tore through Gavriel’s skull, and he found himself lowering onto a stone bench set into an alcove before he even registered his own movement.

Drifah approached, delighted, with the confidence of a predator certain of its prey, and slipped onto his lap like a cat claiming its place. “You fought well today,” she purred, violet-green eyes studying his face as though choosing where to drag a claw.

“I’m delighted the High King was pleased.” Forced through clenched teeth.

Her fingertips traced the line of his jaw.

The touch felt as cold as the pressure behind his eyes.

“Stop,” Gavriel said weakly, even as his muscles locked, attempting and failing to resist. He might have begged if he still knew where his thoughts ended and her influence began.

“Why protest?” she murmured. “I cannot create a thought.” She pressed her lips to his neck. His throat. “Only sway what’s already there.” Once again, just below his ear. “This is what you desire.”

His will faltered.

He kissed her.

Frost spread through his mind as heat surged through his blood, the clash tearing him apart from opposing directions and leaving him reeling. She tasted of crushed lilacs and winter. Sweet at first, then acrid. Her tongue slipped past his lips, and the longer the kiss lasted, the more he felt his resistance begin to give.

No matter how fiercely he fought the fog pressing into him. No matter how clearly he hated that she sensed his resistance and enjoyed it. He could not stop. Desire flared. His own body betrayed him. And by the time she pulled away, he felt utterly defeated.

“I am otherwise occupied tonight,” she whispered in his ear. “But I’ll call for you soon.” Then she left him alone on the bench with a splitting headache, fury coiling in his chest, and his very core ragged and worn, stripped of whatever defenses he had thought still remained.

He stayed there a while, cradling his head in his hands as the echo of her magic loosened its grip. Though it never truly left him—only receded enough to make endurance possible. By the moons, how much longer could he keep up this pretense before he split at the seams?

In that stretch of stillness and misery, Gavriel realized most prying eyes were fixed on Oorlon’s feast. He corralled himself into motion and headed toward the temple gardens to clear his mind—and, more importantly, to visit the aviary just beyond them.

He regretted the choice the moment he opened the carved door.

Astriyed lay stretched across a table, back arched. A male who was certainly not Njall stood between her legs, the movement of his hips leaving no doubt as to what was unfolding. Gavriel caught a glimpse of bare arse before the male spun at the sound of the intrusion, snatched his sword, and brought the tip to his throat in one furious motion.

“Are you certain you wish to aim that sword at me, Sarvo?” Gavriel raised both hands. “We both know you’ve never bested me in a duel.” He dipped his gaze with deliberate insult. “And as for your other sword… A generous offer. Regrettably, I must refuse.”

Sarvo snarled, pressing the blade an inch closer.

“Hush, Sarvo,” Astriyed said lazily from the table, making no attempt to cover herself. “Pietre won’t tell anyone. He has a remarkable talent for discretion.”

Gavriel forced a grin. “Not a word. Provided neither of you mentions finding me here.”

“You see?” Astriyed murmured. Then she laughed—an airy, delighted sound from a female entirely untroubled by the fact that what she was doing could cost the male his life. She slid from the table, walked to Sarvo, and pulled him into a slow, lingering kiss. Doting enough that Gavriel knew it was performed for his benefit.

Sarvo’s grip on the sword loosened, placated by her attention.

“Thank you for indulging me,” Astriyed whispered against his lips. “Go on.”

Eyes never quite leaving Gavriel, Sarvo dressed with frantic movements, the urge to strike plainly still simmering beneath the surface. When he finally stormed out, the door slammed hard enough to rattle the torches.

“Have you lost your senses?” Gavriel snapped, anger rising at the recklessness. “Here?”