CHAPTER NINETEEN #3
Brennan and Jaron had rounded the field, visiting every section of seating and the standing areas where the poorest of commoners watched, and had made their way through the pavilions of noble houses, until they both arrived before the king.
Jaron had collected so many garlands of flowers and ribbons, his lap was buried and so was his lance.
But Brennan, I realized, had kept his lance clear—only my ribbons had been allowed to adorn it.
King Tirian stood. “The final battle,” he said jovially, “between Lord Jaron …”
The crowd cheered, though some booed as Jaron deposited his favors at my feet. He kept his eyes on me as he did so.
“And,” King Tirian continued, “your prince, your future king and Princess Olivay’s groom, Crown Prince Jaron.”
This time the crowd erupted with applause and shouts of encouragement. And more calls for us to kiss.
Brennan shook his head, looking nervous, but one look from the king, and we both knew it had to happen.
He dismounted from his stag. The crowd grew more wild as he strolled around Jaron and up the stairs to where I sat.
“Princess,” he said, and bowed. He took my hand and straightened, helping me to stand before him, and met my eyes.
“Is this okay?” he whispered.
Something felt different. Something had changed between us since last night.
We’d kissed, we’d held hands, and I’d hardly fed, even when things intensified—even when the Azete took over.
But then he’d gone out of his way to come see me this morning, to warn me of the growing presence of guards and to assure me I was safe.
And to admit that his feelings were growing. I knew he was still conflicted. Samara was still in his mind. And yet, our lips had almost touched. He’d wanted them to. I’d wanted them to. The Azete had drawn him in, had him in its claws.
The cheers grew louder, followed by claps and stomps of encouragement. His tongue darted out across his bottom lip.
I reached for the nape of his neck, and buried my fingers in his curls, pulling his head down toward mine until I scented the mint on his breath. “It’s more than okay.”
“Good,” he whispered, and then his mouth was on mine, kissing me softly, slowly.
Until I moaned. And something was unleashed within him.
My lips parted, his tongue pushing against them, his hands wrapping around my back, pulling me into him, each movement demanding and brimming with passion, with desire and want, and yet, he remained in control, every kiss, lick, and brush of his lips still soft and sweet.
My stomach coiled, filling with heat, with want. The Azete rose up my spine, taking control, digging its fangs into Brennan, forging the connection between us.
He groaned in response, his chest heaving. A stream of fresh energy began to pour into me, to revive and strengthen me.
I knew every second I drank, I grew stronger, and he grew weaker, more tired.
Just as he was going into battle against Jaron.
I pulled away, barely catching my breath.
“Win for me,” I commanded.
“As you wish,” he whispered, his eyes hooded with desire and want.
“What a show you two put on,” Jaron said, clapping slowly.
Brennan’s neck reddened, and he stepped away from me—stumbling as he did so.
I grabbed him around the waist without thinking, pulling him against me.
“Weak in the knees, Cousin?” Jaron lifted an eyebrow.
“Not so weak I won’t defeat you,” Brennan said.
The calls of the house mottos began again.
Jaron’s nostrils flared, and once again his moonstag, Barron, seemed overly interested in me, trying to push its head closer to my feet. “Quite an effect you have on him, Princess Olivay,” he said. “You can let go of him now. My cousin’s a grown man. He can stand on his own”
But he couldn’t. Brennan was still unsteady on his feet. I could feel it.
Yet, he was determined to move past it, to not let it show or slow him down. He took a deep breath and straightened, meeting my eyes. “I am undone by you, Princess.”
The stream opened again. And there was a flash in his mind. Samara. The tavern, alone in her room.
I won’t so much as kiss you.
He blinked, breaking away.
“Go,” I said. “Go and win!” I reached for one of the spare violet ribbons Abigail had tied in my hair and slid it free, tying a small knot and handing it to Brennan. “A little extra luck for you.”
He wrapped his fist around it and pressed it to his mouth for a kiss. A sweet gesture, and a sincere one. But also a way to delay himself from moving just yet. He frowned in frustration, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths.
“Go, son,” King Tirian commanded. “Enough theatrics. You know you’re well trained enough to win this.”
“Yes, father,” he said, and bowed.
As the chants for House Bathiner’s words began again, the king sneered at his son, “You better.”
Slowly—too slowly—Brennan climbed down from the pavilion and back onto his stag.
“You’ve bewitched him,” Jaron said.
“Hopefully enough to win,” I seethed.
He smirked, but then the king ordered me to sit again, and so I did, watching as Jaron took off behind Brennan.
I looked over my shoulder at the Hermit who was staring at me in horror. He shook his head slowly.
And I knew—I’d fucked up. If Brennan lost this fight, it was my fault. And if he connected the moment he lost his strength to our kiss, it was all over for me.