Chapter Twenty-Eight
ChApter
Twenty-Eight
The evening air is thick with the scent of rich, heady spices mingling with a sweet undertone of jasmine.
Nadya and I follow Jalelle to the tent where the evening feast is taking place, Sir Holden trailing behind us.
Except this isn’t any tent I’m used to. The structure is enormous.
It towers above us—vast, sprawling, and shimmering under the light of the moon.
Inside, rich fabrics in shades of crimson and gold cascade down the sides, their edges embroidered with delicate patterns that twist like curling smoke.
The air is thick with the scent of spiced meat, honeyed fruits, and the sweet tang of wine, mingling with the faint trace of incense that drifts lazily through the warm air.
Soft music hums from one side of the tent—a melody of flutes and stringed instruments, sensual and slow, as if every note is meant to coax the body into motion.
Beside me, Nadya adjusts the gauzy scarf draped low over her shoulders, her dark curls spilling from a loose bun at the top of her head.
Her brown skin, shining with glittered oil, contrasts beautifully against the golden silk dress the Bastosi queens gifted her.
The gown is molded to her figure, just as mine is—too thin, too revealing for the mourning period, but a welcome respite in the Bastosi heat.
Bastos observes different mourning traditions than we do in the east, but at least my dress is black, so the eastern tradition isn’t completely ignored.
“Well,” Nadya murmurs under her breath, eyeing the clusters of people lounging on the floor, half-reclined against silk cushions. “No one can ever accuse them of not knowing how to enjoy themselves.”
I can’t argue with that. Everywhere I look, Bastosi courtiers move with a kind of effortless sensuality.
Lovers—if they are even exclusive—share whispered secrets, bodies pressed close as they sip from jeweled goblets.
Bare shoulders brush without hesitation, hands linger too long or disappear beneath clothing, and laughter swells as if nothing exists beyond the pleasures of this very moment.
Sir Holden stops near the entrance and takes his position to keep watch over me. He is immediately approached by a curious Bastosi lord holding a goblet. The handsome man begins asking Sir Holden questions, too low for me to hear.
A servant welcomes me and Nadya, ushering us forward toward a lavish spread of pillows and ground-level tables.
I feel the others watching me as I approach.
Though I’m glad to be out of the high-collared, long-sleeved, floor-length gown, I do find it unsettling that my shoulders and arms are bare and that the skirt of my thin, gauzy dress barely flows down to my knees.
When we finally reach the section reserved for us, my heart stumbles in my chest.
Dante is already seated—broad-shouldered and impossibly composed in the middle of this decadent chaos.
His black attire stands in striking contrast to the gilded fabrics around him, and the sharp angles of his jawline seem even more severe under the flickering candlelight.
Instead of a tunic, he wears a silky, black vest that lies open to expose his muscular chest and abdomen.
It’s so hard not to stare and admire his body.
I can feel the pull of him like gravity, and when his storm-grey eyes meet mine, the air between us seems to hum.
With no subtlety whatsoever, a servant gestures to the cushions beside him.
Of course.
Nadya quickly moves from my left to my right, forcing me to take the cushion directly next to Dante. When I flash her a look, she pretends she didn’t do it on purpose, batting her lashes at me in feigned innocence.
With a controlled breath, I lower myself beside Dante.
As I settle, my thigh brushes his in the confined space, and every nerve in my body sharpens.
He’s close—too close for me to be able to convincingly ignore his presence.
I almost sigh at the feel of his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of my dress.
I try to steady my breathing, but the air is thick, heavy with scents and sounds and the undercurrent of temptation that touches everything in Bastos.
“A fortunate coincidence,” he murmurs low enough that only I can hear.
I arch a brow, refusing to let my voice betray how much I feel his nearness. “Or a risky one.”
The corner of his mouth curves into a wicked smile, and my stomach flutters traitorously. His gaze travels down my body, and he tilts his head slightly.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Trying to figure out where you’re hiding your dagger under that tight dress.”
It’s my turn to give him a wicked smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Make no mistake. I would take absolute delight in figuring it out.”
My skin heats, the hot sensation trickling down my back. I release a breath that’s dangerously close to a sigh, and Dante’s gaze darkens.
I make a point to look away, swallowing down my urge to move closer to him. And it’s a good thing I do, because the king’s glare stays on me for a moment. It’s a warning he won’t let me forget.
A rustle of movement draws my gaze to the left, where Queen Ambra lounges with a goblet in hand, one of her lovers feeding her slivers of sugared dates. She catches me looking and winks.
Beside me, Nadya clasps her hands together, her smile wide as servants begin laying out the feast. Platters piled high with honey-glazed meats, jewel-bright fruits, and spiced pastries fill the tables.
Wine flows like water, the deep-red liquid shimmering in cut-glass decanters.
A golden bowl holds figs dripping with syrup, while delicate flower-shaped sweets are dusted with crushed petals.
As one lovely servant fills Nadya’s glass, she rests her hand on Nadya’s shoulder, letting it linger there a moment as their eyes meet.
I reach for a goblet, taking a sip to steady myself. The wine is rich and sweet on my tongue, with a hint of something floral that lingers as I swallow.
“Is everything in Bastos this… indulgent?” I ask, half to myself.
Dante leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “You have no idea.”
The brush of his voice sends a shiver down my spine, and I curse the heat rushing to my core. My hand trembles slightly as I place my goblet back on the table.
How am I going to get through this dinner?
A group of courtiers drifts closer, their conversation laced with laughter and teasing words.
They look like they’ve had too much wine.
One of them stumbles, falling halfway to the floor, pressing against me before catching herself, and causing me to lose my balance.
I fall into Dante’s side, and the dampness of our sweat-glistened bodies makes our skin glide against each other’s.
His hand comes to my waist—steadying, possessive. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
“Careful,” he says softly, though there’s nothing careful about the way his thumb brushes against my hip.
I bite the inside of my cheek, desperate to keep my composure. Across the room, King Silas watches us with his usual air of disapproval, his sharp gaze lingering a moment too long. I shift slightly away from Dante, though every fiber of me protests the loss of his touch.
I take that moment to glance around at the others around the table.
When my eyes land on Queen Eleanor, my stomach sours.
She is not dressed in the sheer fabrics the rest of us wear.
Instead, she wears the usual high-collared, long-sleeved dress and her ever-present elbow-high gloves.
It pains my heart, knowing she is covering her bruises.
I guess they haven’t healed enough during the journey to fade from view.
Unless she has new bruises she acquired since leaving Podrosa.
I can’t help but wonder when King Silas might have had the opportunity to mishandle her, especially since they are not traveling in the same carriage.
I fight the urge to go to her, to ask her if she’s all right and comfort her.
And I fight the even bigger urge to confront the king and make him see the error of his ways.
Ezra gives me a small nod from across the tent. He lifts a goblet, sniffing the liquid before sipping it. I almost laugh when he wrinkles his nose, which eases my anger for the king a bit.
The laughter grows louder as more wine is poured, the Bastosi clearly unbothered by decorum or restraint.
Nearby, a musician plucks a sensual melody on a lute while a trio of dancers twists and sways to the rhythm, their jewel-toned skirts brushing the floor.
I settle back onto the pillows, feeling the silk slide cool against my legs, and resist the urge to glance at Dante again.
But the warmth of his presence is impossible to ignore.
“So,” Queen Ambra purrs, her voice dripping with intrigue.
“Lord Dante, future Prince of Hedera. What is it like, to be a man who was hidden in the shadows, only to now stand at the center of every kingdom’s gaze?
” She lifts her jeweled goblet and tilts her head, her striking, green eyes gleaming with intrigue.
Dante, to his credit, does not flinch under her gaze. He offers her a slow, polite smile. “I wouldn’t say I’m at the center of anything, Your Majesty. I’m only doing my part to ensure Hedera’s proper succession.”
“My son is truly humble,” King Silas puts in. “But there should be no doubt that he will make a fine prince.”
Dante simply nods and takes a swig of his drink.
I notice the dip of Queen Eleanor’s gaze, the way her eyes lower with sadness.
Queen Eosla hums thoughtfully, leaning back against her wife with an easy elegance. “A dutiful son,” she muses, brushing a lock of turquois hair behind her ear.