Chapter 11 #2
She shrugs nonchalantly, then takes a slow sip of her wine, letting the gesture speak for itself.
When she lowers the goblet, a single drop clings to her lips, which she licks off with a subtle, deliberate motion.
“It’s nice to pretend sometimes, that the world is as it once was,” she admits.
Her gaze drifts around the room, lingering on the paintings hanging on the walls.
Landscapes of Thyros, the Thraelis Mountains, and the distant silhouette of Castle Taramethos.
“You miss it,” I say, a faint bitterness curling in my chest.
Her eyes drop, a flicker of vulnerability passing over her face. “I do,” she confesses quietly.
“You could have helped to save it,” I say, unable to stop the words from spilling out.
Marlayna lifts her gaze, meeting my eyes. “Does it make me pathetic that, after a thousand years of life, the reality of death terrified me?”
I consider this for a moment. “No,” I finally reply, my voice steady.
“Death should frighten us more than any other creature. It’s a finality in a life that otherwise stretches on forever.
I do not judge your reluctance to die. But your eagerness to flee your oaths…
” My words turn sharper, a biting edge slipping through. “That is something I cannot abide.”
I watch her throat bob, the faintest sign of hesitation in her movement.
“I am not proud of the actions of my house, but as I heard not long after, the forces of the Mordorin stood victorious in the end.”
A dark chuckle escapes me, one I can’t quite suppress, my disdain curling at the edges of my words. “Oh, we may have been left standing,” I reply, my tone dripping with irony, “but the Sundered Kingdoms are hardly ours to claim.”
Marlayna lifts her chin. “Perhaps it is time House Taramethos returned to the Sundered Kingdoms.” Her fingers drift across the velvet, skimming over my leg in a caress meant to entice, but her touch is no more alluring than a buzzing fly. “We could claim it together. Join our houses.”
My gaze flicks to the mirror, still surrounded by entranced guests, some laughing, others weeping at whatever visions torment them. I let her hand remain but weigh my words with care.
“I have no need for a wife, Lady Marlayna, and last I heard, you already had a husband.”
A flush rises over her skin, smooth and dark like midnight silk. She shifts, fingers tightening around the stem of her goblet. “My beloved Rourke did not survive the journey.”
She does not meet my eyes as she takes a measured sip of wine.
“My condolences,” I offer, though I suspect she has no use for them. “I hope he did not suffer.”
“No,” she murmurs, gaze still evading mine. “It was swift.”
But when her eyes flicker back to me, they carry something else, a guarded truth, a quiver beneath her practiced grace. I hear the phantom pulse of blood beneath her skin, taste the unspoken in the air between us. I arch a brow.
“And how did you say he died again?”
Marlayna straightens, her reply curt. “I didn’t.”
I nod, and with that, I place my untouched wine on the round table beside me. “I did wonder how Lord Rourke would take to such… titillating surroundings. He was always rather pious.”
“I miss him every day, of course. But the freedom I’ve had since settling in Ballamar has been quite liberating.”
“I can see that,” I murmur.
She lifts her empty goblet and gives a lazy flick of her wrist that sends a servant scurrying to refill it. As the servant vanishes, Marlayna turns back to me, curiosity darkening her gaze.
“Now it is my turn,” she says. “Why do you seek the mirror? What is it you hope to find?”
“Something I lost,” I reply. “And a city that moves with the clouds.”
“Driftspire,” she says casually, and my head snaps toward her.
“You know Driftspire?”
“The floating city of House Ithranor. Yes, I have heard of it. But if you’re about to ask where it is, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“The mirror will tell me,” I say.
She tilts her head. “You desire the city that much?”
“I desire only what the city has stolen from me.”
My gaze flicks again to the scrying mirror, restless, impatient to rid myself of this conversation and claim my moment with the tarnished window to the unseen.
“It may show you what you seek,” Marlayna murmurs, reclining against the chaise with the sinuous grace of a cat in sunlight.
She crosses her legs, revealing a flash of smooth thigh.
I make a point of not noticing. “But you know scrying mirrors are fickle things. They unveil not only what you desire… they expose what you fear.”
“It is a risk I am willing to take,” I say.
“It must be a great treasure indeed you’ve been robbed of.”
I offer no further details. It’s blessing enough that she seems unaware of all that has transpired.
“Very well.” She exhales as if she’s already won the game. “Keep to your bargain, and the scrying mirror is yours to use as you will.”
I tip my head toward the six or seven Fae still gathered around the mirror, their expressions rapt with awe or horror.
“Did they bargain with you as well?”
Marlayna hums, thoughtful. “No. They use it freely. But they have nothing I want.”
I draw a slow, measured breath, reminding myself, forcing myself, to remember that while Marlayna’s slender neck would be so very easy to snap, that is not the path I have chosen.
Not tonight. Instead, I pick up the goblet and throw back the wine, letting it sear its way down my throat before handing the empty goblet to a hovering servant.
“Then why waste time with this meaningless chatter?” I say, rough as gravel. “Where is your bedchamber, my lady?”
I can practically feel her blood run hot through her veins, her breath hitching as much from surprise as anticipation.
She hastily drains the last of her wine, though in her eagerness, most of it dribbles down her chin.
She wipes it away with the back of her hand, ignoring the stain it leaves against her skin, and shoves her goblet into the waiting hands of another servant.
“Follow me,” she says, her voice slurred from the wine or her nerves, or a little of both.
She waves off her guards with a flick of her wrist and strides toward the exit. I fall into step behind her, feeling the weight of a dozen curious eyes on me. Reon and Zyphoro are among them, their brows arched in pointed intrigue. But I do not stop.
Marlayna extends a hand behind her, fingers curling, searching for mine.
I have held back armies. Fought through waves of enemies with nothing but my fists until my knuckles split and my arms went numb. I have walked through fire, through ruin, through the jaws of beasts that would tear lesser creatures apart.
And yet none of it, not a single battle, has ever required the strength it takes to lace my fingers through hers and make her believe it is what I want.
Marlayna leads me down the corridor in silence, her footsteps a steady staccato against the wood, echoing the hollow thud of my own heartbeat.
We pass so many doors I lose count, the hush between us stretching taut.
At last, she halts and at her unspoken command, the double doors glide open, revealing a chamber draped in quiet opulence.
Midnight-blue marble glistens beneath the flickering sconces, their golden light catching in the gossamer drapes that whisper with the night breeze.
A grand hearth of black stone commands one wall, its fire casting long, shifting shadows over low tables scattered with scrolls and half-filled inkwells, plans and sketches sprawled in careful disorder.
House Taramethos has always been a house of builders, of visionaries who shape the world with steady hands and restless minds. Even here in Ballamar, far from their ancestral seat, that legacy endures.
But for all the intrigue scattered across those tables, my attention is pulled inexorably to the massive bed that looms at the center of it all, its dark silks rippling in the breeze like the surface of some deep, unknowable sea. It is a stark reminder of why I am here, of the role I must play.
I do not have the luxury of distraction.
Marlayna moves with the confidence of a female who has never once doubted her own allure.
She turns her back to me, not so subtly nudging my groin with the curve of her ass.
Then, with a sweep of her hand, she drapes her hair over one shoulder, revealing the neat row of buttons running down the back of her gown.
“Would you?” she asks, glancing at me over her shoulder, her bottom lip clenched between her teeth.
I do not answer. Words are unnecessary.
Instead, my fingers find the first button. I work them loose with swift, practiced efficiency, the fine fabric parting beneath my touch. Her skin is warm and unblemished, a study in perfection.
And yet I feel nothing.
No hunger. No heat. Not even the ghost of a stirring in my blood.
Marlayna tilts her head, as if waiting for something more, but I give her nothing. This is not seduction. This is strategy. A game played in whispers and shadows, in silk sheets and half-truths.
The last button slips free. Her gown slackens around her shoulders, the fine fabric whispering against her skin, threatening to slide away completely. But just before it can pool at her feet, she catches it in her fists, holding it tight as she glides toward the bed.
She moves like she expects to be worshipped. Like the sight of her reclining across the silken sheets, her gown slipping just enough to bare the soft swell of her breasts, should send me into a frenzy.
But the only thing that burns in me is the consuming ache of absence.
Not for her.
For Amara.
If it were Amara stretched out before me, there’d be no hesitation.
No strategy. Just raw, ruinous need to have her, claim her, hear her cry my name as she clawed at my skin.
I’d take my time unraveling her, tasting every inch, coaxing the sweetest sounds from her lips until she was trembling beneath my tongue.
I would worship her, over and over, until she came undone in my mouth, her pleasure washing over me like a blessing, long before I ever sank into the unbearable heat of her.
The only warmth that could ever truly sate me.
The thought alone sends a sharp rush of hunger through me, but it is not for the female sprawled before me. Even in the haze of my own longing, Marlayna remains nothing more than a pale imitation of desire.
“Come, my prince,” she murmurs, her voice threaded with anticipation as her hair lifts in the breeze. “Time to honor our bargain.”
“Yes,” I say, my voice low, carried on the same wind that catches her hair. “A warm and willing body between your sheets.”
She nods, lips parting, teeth grazing the curve of her bottom lip in anxious excitement.
But then the door groans open behind me.
Marlayna stiffens, her eager expression vanishing in an instant, swallowed by something colder.
Boot steps sound against the floor, measured and unhurried, and then the door clicks shut once more.
Reon steps forward from the dark, coming to stand at my side.
And in the quiet that follows, I can almost hear the pulse hammering in Marlayna’s throat.
“What is this?” she snarls, eyes flashing with fury.
“This,” I say smoothly, barely restraining my grin, “is Lord Reon of Eyr’Drogul.” I tilt my head toward him. “And he is more than happy to honor our bargain on my behalf.”
With the ease of someone born to charm, Reon sweeps back his copper hair and offers a lazy half-bow, the moonlight catching on the sharp gleam of his canines as he straightens.
“Lady Marlayna,” his voice a low rumble beneath his grin. “It will be my pleasure.”
Her face twists in disbelief. “This is not what was bargained.”
My brows lift in mock confusion. “A warm, willing body. Was that not your request?” I clap Reon’s shoulder. “You’ll find he meets those requirements very well.”
“Deceiver,” she spits, her hands curling into fists. “I could have you killed for this.”
I step closer, letting the weight of my gaze settle over her. “Bargains are dangerous things, my lady. Especially when made by Fae.” I let the words hang between us, then smirk. “For one who so longs for the old ways, perhaps instead of outrage, you should embrace this moment.”
The silence draws taut between us, each waiting to see who will make the first move. In the end, it is Marlayna who yields, though not without a flash of irritation in her eyes.
“Fine,” she concedes, voice clipped. “I've had too much wine to be particular. Lord Reon may not be your equal, but he will do.”
Reon exhales a laugh, rolling his shoulders. “I've had worse foreplay, my lady.”
Marlayna's gaze cuts to me like a dagger. “The mirror is yours to use,” she snaps. “Now get out.” Then her eyes slide back to Reon, considering him like a merchant inspecting wares. “You can have your friend in the morning. No sooner.”
Before I can turn on my heel, Reon reaches behind his back, fisting his shirt and dragging it over his head in one smooth motion, the hard muscle of his chest freckled like sun-kissed stone.
“I'll accept that challenge,” he says, voice laced with amusement.
I waste no time in leaving, turning my back just as Marlayna’s delighted giggle fills the chamber. The last thing I hear before the door shuts behind me is the sharp snap of Reon’s belt.
I step into the dimly lit corridor and try to ignore the churning in my stomach at whatever is about to unfold in that room.
The mirror. That is all that matters.