Chapter 9 Kieran #2
The door waited, carved and heavy. Beyond it lay theater, blood, and vipers testing for weaknesses. But in here, in this single breath, all I felt was her heat against my arm and the gnawing ache of knowing that if I caught her tonight, I might not let her go.
The door to my chambers opened into shadow and flame.
Lanterns guttered in their sconces, washing the marble in bands of gold and black. The air outside the chamber was cooler, but it carried the low thrum of the Court gathering in the hunting grounds—laughter pitched too high, music tuned taut, the hum of a crowd fattened on wine and hunger.
Every step forward tightened the mask I wore. Crown Prince. The one they watched. The one they feared. Tonight, every movement would be judged, every whisper twisted into rumor. That was the Hunt as much as the blood and the chase.
Merrit’s hand rested on my arm, feather-light, her posture stiff as steel.
She looked the part Serenya had dressed her for—dark silk, jeweled collar, skin pale against the beads trailing her spine.
But I felt the tremor in her fingers, the half-second lag in her breath.
She knew, as I did, that this was a performance we could not afford to fail.
We stepped into the courtyard, into firelight and spectacle.
Torches flared in iron braziers, their smoke thick with resin. The air was alive with the scents of horseflesh, honed steel, and too-sweet bloodwine. Music curled through it all, strings and drums hammering a rhythm that made the gathered nobles sway like wolves waiting to feed.
Every gaze found me.
Heads bowed, some deep and reverent, others shallow with practiced insolence. They respected me because they had to. They whispered anyway, because they couldn’t help themselves.
“The Crown Prince’s companion?”
“Divide-born,” they said. “A tavern girl dressed like a queen.”
“Look at her hands—too rough for silk.”
“He’ll tire of her by dawn.”
Merrit’s smile came a heartbeat late, tight around the edges.
Her fingers flexed once against my sleeve before stilling.
I signed in broad, deliberate strokes—“Lord Caziel”—then bent to press my lips to the hollow beneath her jaw.
Her pulse jumped under my kiss. To the Court, it was possession. To her, it was warning.
We moved on. Another bow, another name. “Lady Thane.” My hand slid to cover hers where it rested on my arm, a courtly gesture that drew a ripple of indulgent laughter. Useful.
“Duke Renvar,” I signed, making no move to touch her. Nothing. Irrelevant. She tilted her chin higher, catching the look I gave her, and played her part with stubborn poise.
Behind us, the whispers spread like wildfire.
“He’s shameless. In front of everyone.”
“No—look at him. Besotted.”
“Divide-born or not, she’ll burn fast in his bed.”
Good. Let them talk. The more they choked on their envy, the less they’d question why she stood at my side.
The Hunt spread before us like a stage—servants passing goblets of bloodwine, hunters flexing gloved hands, companions shifting uneasily in their finery, knowing they were as much quarry as prize.
Respect crackled in the air, but beneath it all lay the truth: pageantry, sex, blood, and daggers hidden in laughter.
I bent again, pressing another kiss to Merrit’s jaw, letting the Court see it, letting her feel the heat and the warning beneath.
They thought they were watching me claim her.
Only she knew I was arming her.
A long feast table dominated the center, draped in black silk and heaped with food more suited to decadence than sustenance—roasted game glistening with fat, wheels of cheese carved into crowns, jeweled fruits split to display their bleeding hearts.
Silver goblets overran the boards, some filled with wine dark as ink, others with thicker, richer fare that clung to the rim in crimson streaks.
The air was thick with rosemary, char, and iron.
Merrit’s fingers tightened on my arm, just once, before she stilled. Her gaze caught on the table, lingered a heartbeat too long. Pride kept her face smooth, but hunger always found a way to show itself.
I plucked a slice of pheasant from a nearby platter as if it were mine by right, lifting it to her lips with the indulgent air of a prince flaunting his consort. She hesitated, eyes flashing, but she took the bite, jaw tight, chewing like she wanted to fight me even as she ate.
Whispers rustled at our backs:
“Besotted.”
“Hand-feeding her like a pet.”
“Divide-born and already eating from his hand.”
The goblets had already begun their circuit, deep red in silver stems, thick as the veins they’d been drawn from. I caught one, its weight familiar, and lifted it high enough for the nearest cluster of courtiers to see. A Crown Prince feeding his consort. A performance.
Merrit’s stomach had betrayed her earlier when I pressed food to her lips, but this was different. She couldn’t drink this, not without exposing herself.
So I leaned close, pressing the rim to her mouth, letting the dark sheen stain her lips. My thumb tilted her chin as though coaxing indulgence. “Don’t drink,” I whispered against her skin, voice low enough to vanish beneath the din.
She obeyed—of course she did. The crimson gleamed against her mouth, obscene and perfect. Saints, it looked like she’d fed, like she belonged among us. My cock throbbed hard, hunger and want tangling until I couldn’t tell one from the other.
Before I could stop myself, I leaned in and dragged my tongue across her lower lip, slow and deliberate, licking the blood into my own mouth. She jolted, breath catching, but she didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.
The taste slammed through me—copper, sweetness, and her warm skin beneath it. My restraint cracked. I nipped her lip, sharp enough to draw a gasp, soft enough to pass for theater.
And then I saw it. The heat in her eyes, sudden and naked. Not performance. Not pretense. Hunger as real as mine.
She wasn’t acting anymore.
Whispers swelled around us, delight and shock, envy bitter as poison:
“Obsessed.”
“Mad for her already.”
Only I knew the truth of what had flickered between us.
And gods help me, it was the last thing I could afford.