Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
“Before we begin today, let me first address the outcome of yesterday’s hunt.
While we sought to give a final honor to Sai, it was Kerensa, our breathtaking goddess of Love, Beauty, and Voyages, that stayed my hand.
It seemed that she could not wait even one more day for the beginning of her festival, and so while I’m only just announcing it to you, I feel the Festival of Arts has already begun. ”
There’s some scattered applause. Letting the griffin live was a very unpopular decision, judging by the response. And he did it for me. I imagine the room isn’t feeling as kindly to me as they were a couple of nights ago.
Ronan continues to announce the various competitions, performances, and galleries where the festival will be taking place over the next few weeks, but my attention lapses quickly.
Quinn is hanging on his every word, despite likely having heard it all before, and I’m content to let her decide what we’ll attend.
My mind is in the antechamber. I know it should be on what Ronan told me last night, but I’m finding it difficult to work through.
I want to lean into my feelings of relief at finding out my father didn’t die at Ronan’s hand, but what it means for Adria—what it means for Nithyria—haunts me.
We could have had our independence. He could have given it to us there, but he chose not to.
And I know he says it was out of necessity, that our kingdoms need each other, but was it really his choice to make?
Although he did give my father the opportunity to work it out with him, and he declined, at least according to what Ronan told me.
Ronan could have lied about that. But to what end? What he told me wasn’t flattering. It didn’t justify his actions or put him in a good light.
It’s too much to think about. And so I keep drifting back to the other side of the door, back to where Ronan kissed me—
A wave of heat flashes over me. It’s sudden and terribly strong. It’s—passion. Excitement. And it isn’t just mental, it’s physical. I feel it in the warmth on my neck. The peaks of my nipples beneath my dress. A slickness between my legs.
“—the fourth week. Then, the final show—” Ronan stops mid-sentence, leaning forward suddenly. His skin flushes red.
“Sir?” asks Taran, approaching the throne.
Ronan looks at me. What the fuck is happening?
Whatever is happening to me, it looks like it’s happening to him too. He shifts in his seat, gripping the armrests with his hands.
“Sir, are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” says Ronan through his teeth. “I’m fine,” he repeats, his voice leveling out.
The flush leaves my body as quickly as it came on. I breathe heavily, suddenly dizzy from whatever caused my blood to change its flow so quickly. Poison?
“What the hell?” whispers Quinn, looking at me. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” I say. If it were poison, it seems like it wouldn’t have gotten better. Magic of some kind then, maybe?
Ronan shakes his head and resumes his speech as if nothing had happened. There are a couple of murmurs in the crowd, but no one dares say anything.
At the end, when we all rise for his exit, I feel it again.
“It’s both of you,” says Quinn, looking between where I put my hand down on the bench to steady myself and where Ronan has done the same on the throne. “Come on,” she says, taking me by the arm and marching me towards him. “Zara?”
“What’s going on?” asks Zara.
“Something with these two. We may need your help.”
“Quinn, I don’t think—” Fuck, I can hardly speak, it’s so strong. But I’m not about to say anything in front of everyone. Not with the way it’s making me feel. It’s mortifying.
I need to talk to Ronan alone.
“Out,” says Ronan when we enter the antechamber. “Not you,” he says to me.
“Something is wrong with them,” says Quinn, ignoring him. “They need a healer. Zara, could you take a look?”
“Of course,” she says.
I’m extremely grateful that Zara doesn’t share Ronan’s power at this moment.
“Don’t touch her,” says Ronan, but Zara ignores him too, and we’re both overcome by another wave of whatever this is before he can push her away from me.
“Her face is flushed. Her heart rate and breathing are fast. What did you eat? It could be an allergy you share.”
“It’s not a fucking allergy,” says Ronan. “It’s my magic. We’re fine. Everyone out except Sylvie. Now.”
I’ve never heard his tone so severe. It does the trick though—despite their concerns, everyone leaves us alone in the antechamber.
The moment they’re gone, it hits again. Gods, it’s like he’s actively kissing me even though we’re across the room from each other. My entire body is pulsing with heat and energy. And primal, desperate need.
I rush over to him, but he holds his hands up to stop me. “Wait. Wait,” he says, catching his breath. “Give it a second. It’ll pass. I can do this.”
“What’s going on?” I ask once my head finally clears. “Are you doing this somehow?”
“I think so,” he admits. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how it’s happening, not exactly. But I think it’s to do with you being able to feel me. Whether I’m projecting my power or it’s something in yours, I don’t know. But I think—”
He stops and looks around the room. “No mirrors or looking glasses in here. There’s one in my chambers—”
Fuck, this is the worst wave yet. I don’t merely feel like I’m kissing him, I feel like I’m in bed with him. My body is aching. I’m so wet, I’m glad I’m standing. It would have pooled beneath my dress if I was still sitting down.
“Not there,” he says, forcefully shaking something out of his head. “Have you ever held up a mirror to another mirror?”
“Sure,” I say. My servants do it to show me the back of my hair sometimes.
“Do you know how it looks like it goes on forever? Repeating over and over again, into infinity?”
“Yes…”
“It’s like that, I think, only when we’re feeling the same thing at the same time. You feel it, and I feel you feeling it. And you feel me feeling you feeling it. And I feel you feeling me feeling you feeling it. And so on.”
“Oh, gods,” I say. “I was just thinking about yesterday, when we were in here—”
And there it is again. I reach for him this time, and he comes extremely close to taking me in his arms—
“No,” he says, taking a step back from me. “As much as I want to, and gods, I want to, no. I felt you this morning. Your uncertainty, your indecision. I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.”
I close my eyes, trying to focus on his words and not the pull of his body. “I know I want this too. It’s just…everything else…”
“I know,” he says.
“Perhaps we should spend a bit of time apart. Just to keep things…clearer.”
His face falls, and I can feel the pain of his disappointment, his longing—our joint disappointment, our joint longing—reverberate between us. It’s sudden and poignant and heartbreakingly sad.
“Fuck,” I say.
“Fuck,” he agrees.
I don’t want to leave, and he doesn’t want me to go. But the echoing desire to stay is exactly why I must leave him.
I can never work out what I need to do with our feelings consuming my every thought, even if they weren’t being heightened by each other.
“Sylvie?” he asks when I’m at the door.
“Yes?”
He doesn’t say anything else, but I feel something deep pass between us. Something I don’t dare name.
I nod once, and I open the door.