Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Never a quiet day in this skiesforsaken palace. After the Volcan emissaries left two weeks ago, I thought I’d have more time to myself. More time with Mayah.
Except during today’s council meeting, Jeyzar mentioned the prisoner—the one who’d launched a dagger at Mayah at our reception—is causing trouble.
Attempting to rally the prisoners adjacent to his cell.
Demanding release. Or execution. Anything other than the rotting existence he’s currently living.
Even with repeated beatings, the guards have been unsuccessful in getting him to shut the fuck up. So I’m taking it upon myself to remind him of his bleak future.
I hasten my pace through the hallways—if I hurry, maybe I won’t be late for dinner.
“…certain it’s not Tundrayn?” Faramir’s needling voice carries down the corridor. My spine goes rigid. He’s the last person I want to deal with. Abruptly, I change directions, ducking into a deserted side hallway.
It’ll take longer to get to the dungeon this way, but at least I’ll have avoided—
I freeze halfway down the hall.
A lone energy signature pulses faintly behind a narrow door—one I’d recognize anywhere.
It’s my wife.
What in the Skies is she doing inside a closet? The fact that she’s alone both soothes and enrages me.
Where the fuck are her guards?
The door creaks softly as I step into the dark supply closet, eyes adjusting to the dim light.
There she is—standing against a stack of crates, shoulders stiff with tension, energy signature pulsing wildly with agitation.
I step closer.
She must recognize me in the dark because her posture relaxes, her signature softening to a gentle hum.
How is it that my willful wife found herself alone in a supply closet, one hallway down from where Faramir could’ve easily discovered her?
Irritation crackles inside me.
“What are you doing in here, wife?” I can’t help the edge that undercuts my words.
I step closer.
She steps back.
“Hiding,” she whispers. She inches backward again, until she’s pressed against the stone wall. “I saw your brother one hall over.”
Truth.
I hum, taking another step closer.
“And where are your guards?”
“You wanted to find me in a dark closet with one of my guards?”
I growl at the thought. “You know that’s not what I mean.” One more step, and the distance vanishes between us. Her sweet winter scent floods my senses, and Skies, I want to bathe in it until I breathe her with every inhale.
I place my arms on either side of her head, leaning even closer.
“I’m waiting for an answer, wife.”
“I—I saw a chance to be alone. I took it. Everyone wants to be alone sometimes.”
I study her carefully. No prickles.
“Which guards?” I finally ask.
“Don’t punish them,” she protests. “It’s not their fault.”
“Which. Guards.”
“Gregoran and Freynk. But please don’t punish them. I like them.”
“You like them?” I growl, jealousy scorching my lungs until I’m practically exhaling smoke. “I’m feeling more and more inclined to eviscerate them.”
Her hand slides up my chest, splaying over my heart. She stares at me with wide, blue eyes, teeth digging into her lower lip.
Fucking Skies. She must know what effect she has on me.
I struggle to hold onto my irritation with her for consistently putting herself in danger despite my best efforts to keep her safe.
I fail miserably.
Trailing a finger across her collarbone, I trace the line of her neck. She’s panting. So am I.
Fuck being patient.
“Can I kiss you, Mayah?”
“Yes—”
My mouth crashes down against hers in a deep, hungry kiss, lips demanding entrance. I’ve been drowning for her, and the feel of her lips on mine, her body pliant in my arms, has me repeatedly thanking the Skies. Her fingers tangle in my hair, a loud moan sweetening the air around us.
Mayah arches her back, pressing harder into me.
My fingers curl into her hair as I angle her face so I can devour her properly.
She tries to stifle her moans, but I coax the sweet sounds from her anyway, swallowing every breathless gasp like it belongs to me.
My tongue delves into her mouth, and Skies damn me, she tastes like salvation.
Gripping the backs of her thighs, I hoist her up until her legs wrap around my waist.
I can’t get enough of her.
I will never get enough of her.
If I died in her arms right now, I’d be content with my fate.
I pull back slightly, trailing hot kisses down her neck, brushing aside her necklace to taste the sweet hollow between her collarbones before kissing back up to her lips. Her mouth eagerly meets me, tongue brushing against mine.
Nothing about the kiss is gentle—not the sharp clack of our teeth knocking together, not the death grip Mayah has on my hair, the way her legs are clamped around my hips. She grinds against me, desperate for friction, and I’m half-inclined to take her here, right now—
The door opens with a loud bang.
Humming energy signatures—five people, maybe more, swarmed close together. Feminine chatter, followed by a scandalized gasp.
I break the kiss, huffing an exasperated sigh.
Servants.
“Come back later,” I growl.
The women turn to leave.
“Wait! Wait,” Mayah calls after them. A rosy flush paints her cheeks and neck, yet she somehow turns even redder. When I don’t release my hold, she pushes at my chest, glaring at me.
I meet her fierce gaze. I can’t think clearly, the desire to keep her pinned to this wall overpowering every rational thought.
Her glare burns hotter. Reluctantly, I set her down. Her knees buckle, and I grab her waist to steady her.
My wife scurries from the supply closet, head bowed. I’m right behind her as she turns the corner and practically flees down the hallway.
She thinks she can just walk away from me after that?
“What are you doing?” she hisses when she realizes I’m right behind her, cheeks still deliciously red.
“My wife seems to have misplaced her guards,” I rumble. “I’m ensuring she returns to our chambers safely. And”—I band my arm around her waist—“if she wanted to continue what we began in the closet, I’m happy to oblige her.”
She opens her mouth, then seemingly changes her mind and snaps it shut. I accompany her to our chambers in silence, when Mayah suddenly whirls and jabs a finger into my chest. “What were you doing in the closet?”
I haven’t told her that my advanced stormwielding abilities allow me to sense the natural electric currents that emanate from all living creatures—and that I’d recognize hers in a crowd of hundreds.
I haven’t told her about my truthwielding, either. Guilt rakes sharp talons down my back, worse than the prickles that torment me day and night. I don’t answer immediately. She’d see it as a betrayal—that she couldn’t ever lie to me, even if she wanted to. Not that she ever has.
Soon. I’ll tell her soon.
“I was hiding from my brother, too.”
I brace one arm against the door frame to our chambers, looking down at her. “Have you decided, wife?” I deepen my voice, hoping to distract her from her question. “Can I come inside?”
She bites her lower lip. “You don’t need permission to enter your own chambers.”
I lean closer, my breath fanning her ear, “You know that’s not what I’m asking.”
She shivers. “Your—your brother is looking for you.”
For a moment, I don’t process her words.
Then her rejection settles across my shoulders, tight and uncomfortable, like a cloak I’ve outgrown.
I nod stiffly, disappointment and hurt battering my heart. She wants me, cares for me—I know she does. And we’re married. I don’t understand her hesitation.
When I step away, her hand thrusts out, fingers curling around my bicep.
“Wait! I—” A wary hope flickers within me as I rake my gaze over her, indecision clear on her face.
“I want to, Zev. Truly. It’s just … even with our marriage, the situation is tense between our kingdoms. Your family still doesn’t trust Tundrayn.
I’m afraid. Of being hurt. Of hurting you.
I just need more time.” She cups my cheek, eyes soft and earnest.
Truth. All of it.
My heart melts. In her mind, our marriage isn’t permanent. Isn’t real. She sees it as an instrument of politics, and I can’t blame her. Not with how her father sent her here and how my father changed the script to suit his goals.
A weary exhale escapes me before I brush a kiss to her forehead and walk away.
The dungeon awaits.
I’m washing the blood from my hands when a haggard servant finds me and summons me to the council chambers, where I’m met with my father and Faramir’s grave faces.
“What’s happened?”
“Rebellion attack on the Valreyz base. Four hundred casualties on our side.”
I swear, low and colorful, settling into a chair across from Faramir.
“There hasn’t been an attack of this scale in nearly a year,” my father says, thick brows drawn together. He’s wearing his crown tonight, shoulders hunched beneath its weight.
“The timing is indeed … convenient,” Faramir drawls.
Silence descends on the room as both men look at me expectantly.
“What are you staring at me for?”
Faramir scoffs. “Let’s not dance around it, brother. Mayah is feeding them information.”
I blink.
Then my temper rages. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
My father sighs wearily, as though he anticipated my reaction yet is still disappointed. “The timing is indeed strange, Zevayr,” he says matter-of-factly as if we’re discussing the weather and not my wife committing high treason.
“I’d hope,” I grit out, “that you gathered evidence before making this outrageous accusation. How in the ever-loving Skies do you think my wife managed to feed information to the Rebellion? That she’s even working with them?
She never leaves the palace. She either remains in our chambers or heals in the infirmary.
” Except earlier today when I caught her alone in a supply closet—I keep this detail to myself, though.
Mayah spoke the truth when she said she wanted to be alone.
My father looks uncertain. Faramir has a disdainful smirk plastered to his face.
“She sends no letters. None come for her.” My hands clench the armrests until the wood groans.
“Still, you must admit—” Thunder rumbles, loud and sudden, and Faramir sucks in a sharp breath.
“Next time you make an accusation against my wife, make sure your proof is unshakeable. The Rebellion has been a problem for years. It seems you need reminding that the rebels were the main reason for alliance with Tundrayn in the first place. The timing of this attack is mere coincidence.”
Rain begins to sluice the windows.
I take a deep breath, reining in my fury before the storm rages harder and terrifies my wife.
“All right,” my father says quietly. “We’ll concede Mayah is innocent. But if her father is working with the Rebellion … then what do you propose we do?”
“Is there evidence of this?”
“A good commander explores all possibilities. We’ve allowed the Tundraynis to set up a camp within our borders. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that they forged an alliance with the Rebellion against us.”
Fuck being a good commander. I want to be a good husband.
“I find it highly unlikely that Tormik would have sent us his defenseless daughter, then proceeded to work with the Rebellion behind our backs. He’d be a fool.”
My father regards me coolly over steepled fingers, lips pursed together. He seems content to let the subject rest.
For now.