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‘Who?’ she found herself asking, simply out of curiosity. Who could he possibly feel more comfortable with than his own twin?

‘Ryyen,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘After Armia died…’

A cacophony of emotions battled through her. Guilt, despair, remorse—Areanel hadn’t expected the visceral reaction. A sudden chill shook her spine, locking it in place, at the name she hadn’t heard from Percival since they were young.

Armia. A young healer who had patched them up after every fight, tousle and punishment in their youth. Armia, who had been more than just a healer—she had been Areanel’s best friend and the first person Percival ever gave his heart to.

‘I felt so alone, but then Ryyen was there and we just kind of…’ His voice fell away, and Areanel did not miss the way his features softened, the blush that rose to his cheeks or the slight tug at the corner of his lips. Was he smitten? Had he finally opened his heart to another? ‘They are a surprisingly good listener,’ he added. ‘Better than Vas.’

A burst of laughter passed Areanel’s lips, and soon, Percival was chuckling alongside her. ‘Of course, they are. But then again, anyone is better than Vas!’

Her spymaster had always preferred to listen rather than talk. Ryyen had been her confidant for as long as she could remember, and in all that time together, they had been inseparable. Ryyen’s presence had always been one of the constants in her life, silent but reassuring. Compared to the other envoys—Vasilio in particular, who was just as bad, if not worse than Percival—Ryyen was the more sensible member of the group.

Then, their laughter came to an abrupt halt. Awareness prickled at Areanel’s skin, and goosebumps pebbled along the nape of her neck.

They were being watched.

Chapter 21

Rymedur

Waiting in the king’s study, Rymedur’s foot tapped incessantly against the white marble floors, the slam of his heel on the ground the only sound in the empty room.

It had been days since Areanel left for Vennedove, and to say Rymedur was worried would be an understatement. He knew she could look after herself, but she had been gone too long for a simple relocation mission—especially if they had taken Prince Nymlaris with them. With his power, Nymlaris would be able to cut the time between Vennedove and the ruins in half.

He wanted nothing more than to have her wrapped in his arms again.

After the council meeting, he had planned to run her a bath and help her out of that ebony gown that sent his shadows into a frenzy and scorching heat right down to his manhood. The heated look he had given her during the meeting had been a promise he intended to keep, but she had rushed out so suddenly he hadn’t had the chance.

Now, he wished he had wrapped his arms around her and never let her go. He would have showered her with love, worshipped her like the goddess she was—brought her to the precipice of pleasure with his tongue, eager to hear those delicious sounds leave her wickedly sinful lips. Then he would have used his shadows to satisfy her more masochistic desires if he thought it would keep her from leaving.

He knew, though, that no matter how he might have had her begging for more—writhing beneath him and his shadows as they played with her—Areanel would not have stayed. Though, for fear of the consequences of disobeying her father or having the chance to capture rebels, Rymedur did not know.

A small piece of heaven. A slice of peace. He would do anything to spend even a couple of blissful minutes more with her—be that under the sheets, holding one another and whispering sweet nothings in her ear or whilst she worked at her desk, and he quietly read new pastry recipes. He wanted nothing more than a simple life with her. Like his parents shared.

No weight of a kingdom on their shoulders, just them and their children. Together. Because every time she left, he felt like a sailor lost at sea, waiting for her to come back. Rymedur knew his worries and anxieties would ease when she was before him. She was his land—his home. Those brilliant blue eyes were where he found peace, and he had fallen in love with and adored every moment of waking up to her glowing azure gaze. A light. His love. That was what she was to him.

Today, of all days, she should be by his side, with her family.

The clicking sound of the handle turning pulled Rymedur from his thoughts, and the king entered.

‘Rymedur.’ Aerileas addressed him without looking his way. Rounding the desk, his father-in-law stood before the large floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the courtyard leading to his concubines’ housing and the enormous array of purple flowers. Aconite, monkshood flowers—said to have been planted by the former queen herself. It was a strange plant to have surrounding the concubine’s residence. Poisonous. Did Aerileas keep them as a reminder of his deceased mate? Or as a threat for his concubines?

Rymedur narrowed his eyes at the back of Aerileas’s head, trying to determine why he had been summoned. It was a rare occasion when Aerileas called for him, and he was often ignored.

Watching his cold gaze rove the numerous concubines, Rymedur wondered how any of the ladies could stomach the king’s bitter attention. His features were always set in a perpetual frown, and his eyes held an icy glare.

People often compared Areanel to her father—vicious and cruel—and while they shared the same eye, Rymedur did not see the resemblance. Yes, Areanel could be ruthless, but only ever to those who deserved so. Areanel’s eyes held love and warmth. The king’s were chilling. Unforgiving.

Ignoring the bite in his tone, Rymedur forced himself into a bow. One fist over his heart, he bent at the waist and waited for the king to address him again so that he could rise, but the bastard chose not to acknowledge him instantly, and the position began to strain his stiff muscles. Rymedur huffed a breath through his nose, scoffing as freshly-cut nails dug into his palm.

‘I sent a messenger to Ardsas Utul Eleymore Selcirith to inform them of the change in location for the ratification.’

Straightening his posture, Rymedur’s stiff muscles pulled—a satisfying click in his lower back had him breathing a little easier, though he had to physically stop himself from rolling his eyes at Aerileas. Why was he using the kingdom’s full name? It was usually just Selcirith.

But no, not his father-in-law. The pompous ass probably loved to make people think he was more intelligent and refined than everyone else.

‘Your uncle Killian has yet to reply.’