Chapter Twenty-Six
Zev doesn’t just kiss me—he devours me.
His lips move passionately against mine, deep and aching, fingers gripping my chin.
With his other hand, he pulls me flush against him, chests pressed together, so close his every breath draws out my own.
He coaxes my mouth open with his lips, tongue brushing mine in a soft stroke.
A low moan slips free, and I melt into his chest.
He breaks away, trembling fingers finding my hand.
“Take off his ring,” he growls, tugging it from my finger. It clatters to the floor, forgotten. “I’ll get you another one.”
And then he’s kissing me again, slower this time, as if he wants to memorize the feel of my lips against his.
As if we have all the time in the world.
As if his brother and father aren’t plotting against me in the throne room.
None of that seems to matter to Zev. His entire focus narrows to me, and the thought sends a warm fluttering pulse of desire coiling through my veins. He kisses me until I’m dizzy, until his intoxicating smoke-and-pine scent dominates my senses, until my lips are swollen from his attentions.
He kisses me as if he’s been waiting for me his entire life.
When he finally pulls away, his chest is heaving, hands lingering on my face.
His eyes are dark with barely restrained desire, as if he wants nothing more than to keep kissing me senseless.
My knees buckle, and he huffs a quiet laugh, holding me steady against him.
We’re both panting, and there’s a smile on my lips that I can’t contain.
Zev’s expression mirrors my own. He brushes his lips across my brow. “Let’s go tell them.”
For the second time in less than an hour, Zev leads me back to the throne room, but this time, our hands are intertwined. Varad’s arms are crossed tightly, fingers drumming on his bicep. Faramir looks bored, cleaning his nails with a dagger. Both men straighten as we enter.
“I have thought long and hard on your proposal,” I announce, my voice loud and steady. “I would be honored to marry Prince Zevayr, Second Son of Arbinj, Commander of the Arbinji armies.”
Silence.
Varad frowns, his eyes dropping to our joined hands. His scowl deepens. “I would advise thinking on it harder, Princess. You are the heir to Tundrayn. Its future queen.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “If you refuse, you’d be welcome to return home, of course.”
Zev jerks beside me, his fingers tightening around mine in an iron-tight grip almost to the point of pain.
I cast him a concerned glance before turning back to Varad and adding, “That won’t be necessary. Please inform my father. I am certain in my decision. The Rebellion grows ever stronger—they were bold enough to attack our entourage. It’s time our people were joined as one.”
Faramir finally looks up, cold eyes sharpening with interest. His gaze, too, drops to our joined hands, and his lips curl into a cruel smile.
Varad is silent. Smoke practically wafts from his ears.
Good.
I’ve left him with no choice, and he knows it.
“Wonderful,” he says tightly. “The wedding will occur in a fortnight—”
“Tomorrow,” Zev cuts in. “The wedding will be tomorrow.”
“So eager for your nuptials, brother?” Faramir sneers, narrowed eyes still fixed on me.
Varad frowns. “That’s not enough time to plan a wedding. The nobles—”
“Tensions are high with Tundrayn. The Rebellion is growing stronger. We can’t afford delay. The sooner we stand united, the better. Keep the wedding simple.” Zev waves a dismissive hand. “You can spare the opulence for the second son.”
He’s interrupted the king twice now. My father would have reprimanded me thoroughly. Varad looks displeased but has said nothing.
“Tomorrow, then,” Varad acquiesces. My lips part in surprise. “I suppose we can find someone to perform the purity test tonight.”
The air leaves my lungs. I had forgotten about that impending indignity.
“There will be no purity test,” Zev declares, his face stony. His grip around my fingers turns to iron.
“Zevayr,” his father reprimands, leaning forward on the throne. “If you suspect the princess is impure, I cannot allow—”
“I took the liberty of … inspecting Mayah’s purity. During our journey.”
The silence that falls over the room is deafening.
Humiliating.
My stomach drops, hot embarrassment flushing my cheeks. I can’t decide if I want to kiss Zev or slap him.
Two sets of green eyes fix on me. Tides, I wish the earth would split open and swallow me whole.
“Took many liberties with my betrothed, did you?” Faramir croons menacingly. His eye twitches.
“A happy coincidence that Mayah is my betrothed now,” Zev shoots back. “No harm done.”
“She is now, but—”
“Enough.” Varad raises a silencing hand, and Faramir falls quiet, though I don’t miss the outrage flickering in his cold, green gaze. “Zevayr, get your betrothed settled, then return here. At once.”
Zev ushers me from the hall, his hand warm on my lower back. He calls over the nearest servant, giving her instructions about which rooms to prepare for me.
Then, he pulls six guards from their posts.
“If so much as a gentle breeze dares to touch her, if even an invisible splinter pierces her skin, you will each suffer a slow and brutal death. Your screams will echo for weeks. Your families will have nothing to bury. Do. You. Understand?” he snarls, eyes blazing with violent promise.
The guards nod frantically, slack-jawed with equal parts shock and horror.
“I’ll keep you safe, Mayah,” Zev promises. One more squeeze to my hand, and then he disappears back into the throne room.
It’s the most distance we’ve had between us in over a month.
And even with six guards sworn to my protection, I’ve never felt more vulnerable.