Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
“But not all dutiful sons bring honor to their realms,” Queen Ambra puts in, tracing a fingertip languidly over her wife’s collarbone.
“It was only decades ago when my father broke ties with Tsar Pisarus, which most certainly had my grandfather rolling in his grave.” She shifts her gaze to me, clearly seeing my confusion.
“When my grandfather was King of Bastos, he had sworn allegiance to Dulcamar. But that was before the Age of War.”
I can understand the shift in alliances. My own father made an enemy of the sirens of Messanya, but when my brother inherited the throne, he took great strides to mend their ties.
“And so it goes in times not embraced by peace,” Queen Eosla says, tracing lazy circles on her wife’s hand. “If the tides shift, we must shift with them.”
Queen Ambra tilts her head as she studies Dante. “We do so appreciate a man who knows his duty. But surely, you must have desires of your own.” Her smile deepens, the invitation in her tone unmistakable.
Dante chuckles low in his throat, a sound that sends a spark of heat through me despite the sweltering air.
“I find a prince’s desire should be to serve his kingdom,” he says, his voice like velvet, smooth and controlled.
His fingers twitch slightly where his hand rests on his knee—a movement so small, I nearly miss it.
“Yes, of course,” Queen Ambra says as she flashes him a smile. “But you are also a man, and there must certainly be a passion that drives you.”
I fight to control the heat that climbs up my neck.
Dante gives her a nod. “Naturally, but I’m also a man of decorum, and I know it’s wise to keep my private affairs… private.”
A silver-haired courtier lounging nearby gives an exaggerated sigh.
“What a shame,” he says, his mouth curling in amusement.
“We are always eager to know what a handsome prince desires. Perhaps a bit more Bastosi wine will loosen your tongue?” He gestures to a servant, who swiftly refills Dante’s cup with a golden liquid that gleams in the lantern light.
I feel Dante’s gaze brush against me as he lifts the cup to his lips.
My throat tightens, and I force my attention to the fruit platter in front of me.
I reach for a fig, hoping to distract myself from the warmth spreading low in my belly.
Nadya, ever the observant one, nudges me with her elbow, her lips curving into a teasing smirk.
I pick up my goblet, shifting closer to her as I drink.
“They’re practically undressing him with their eyes,” she murmurs, leaning in close and keeping her voice just loud enough for me to hear. “Not that I blame them.”
I shoot her a glare, but it lacks any real bite. The truth is, I can barely stand it myself. The way he looks tonight—relaxed, confident, yet utterly untouchable—only makes me want him more. But I cannot afford to let my thoughts wander, not here, not when the king is watching us so closely.
“Lord Dante,” Queen Ambra calls again, her smile wicked. “I hear you are quite skilled with a blade. Is it true that your falchion never misses its mark?”
“I do my best,” Dante replies smoothly, but there’s a tautness in his jaw. There’s bound to be a trial the queens have arranged, and I’m sure Dante is wondering if this is a clue to what they have planned.
One of the queens’ lovers, a lean, dark-eyed man wearing little more than a sheer robe, leans toward Dante with a playful glint in his eye. “If you ever tire of swords, we could find other ways to test your skills.”
I press my lips together tightly to stop myself from reacting, but the heat prickling along my skin betrays me. Dante shifts slightly closer to me, his thigh brushing mine on the cushions. The contact is fleeting—just enough to steady me, but not enough to satisfy the ache curling in my chest.
Queen Eosla watches the exchange with amusement but soon waves her hand dismissively. “You must forgive my court, Lord Dante. They seem to have no sense of restraint tonight.”
I almost laugh at the understatement.
The evening hums with heat and decadence. Low laughter ripples through the tent, accompanied by the soft chime of bells on the ankles of the servants who drift between cushions and low tables, refilling goblets with sweet, spiced wine.
Queen Ambra tilts her head as the music shifts. The steady beat of drums grows softer, more sensual, and she claps her hands lightly. “Ah,” she purrs. “A gift for our guest of honor.”
Dante straightens slightly as the three women who had been dancing on the edges of the feast step into the center of the tent.
My breath hitches.
I’d noticed them before, but taking the time to study them in more detail, I have to admit that these women are stunning. From the melodic sound Nadya makes beside me, I can tell she agrees.
Scarves of sheer crimson and gold flutter around their hips, the thin silks offering only the barest cover to their soft, curving figures.
The skin at their exposed shoulders, cleavages, and stomachs shimmers and sparkles in the candlelight.
Glittery, beaded belts sway below their waists with each measured step, drawing the eye lower.
Hair as dark as midnight cascades down their backs, threaded with delicate gold chains and ribbons.
Their faces are painted—sultry, red lips and kohl-lined eyes that gleam like polished obsidian as they approach.
“Stand for us, future prince,” Queen Ambra invites, her voice a husky tease.
One of the stunning women draws closer to Dante, tossing a handful of flower petals in the air over us before bending down to pull at his arm with two delicate hands.
Her gold bangles clink together as she stretches between us.
She has a smile that could charm anyone into letting her get away with anything she wishes.
“Yes, stand, my son.” King Silas lifts his drink, laughter bubbling from his throat.
Dante hesitates just long enough to make my pulse quicken before he sets his goblet down and rises to his feet.
I force myself to hold still, to keep my expression smooth.
But inside, a different kind of heat prickles through me. A heat borne from jealousy, I painfully admit to myself.
The dancers move with liquid grace, encircling him.
A slow roll of their hips, the slide of their hands skimming the air just shy of his skin.
One twirls a length of silk across his shoulders, letting it slip down his chest in a teasing caress.
Another traces the edge of his jaw with her fingertips, bold as anything. I curl my fingers into my lap.
I could stop her. A flick of my wrist, and the dagger hidden beneath my skirts could pin her hand to the floor.
Instead, I do nothing.
The dancers twirl swiftly around him, their breasts practically spilling from their tops, and Dante’s balance sways.
I hadn’t noticed before, but his eyes are a bit bloodshot. The wine they’ve given him must be strong. He’s keeping his balance, but I can tell it’s a struggle.
A chuckle ripples from the queens’ mattress, low and indulgent. “The future prince seems tense,” Queen Eosla murmurs, exchanging a knowing look with her wife.
“Perhaps he’s merely deciding which of them to bed first,” Queen Amber suggests.
“If it’s too much to handle, Dante, I’ll relieve you of one,” King Silas quips, the amusement in his tone laced with something coarser. “Or keep all three, if you dare. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind sharing.”
My nails dig deeper into my palm.
Dante’s lips curl faintly, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “Your generosity humbles me, Your Majesty,” he says smoothly, though I notice the way his shoulders stiffen beneath the press of the dancers’ hands.
One of the women—tall, with skin like gleaming bronze—slides her fingers along the open edges of his vest, pushing it farther apart. A muscle feathers in his jaw, but he doesn’t pull away.
I clench my teeth as my heart pounds, the flush rising higher along my neck.
He’s only playing the part, I remind myself. But that doesn’t stop the ache low in my belly, the sharp twist of something I’m embarrassed I let consume me.
The women laugh softly as the music winds down.
They twirl their scarves around him once more, drawing out the moment, their bodies brushing close enough to make my blood boil.
But Dante only offers them a polite smile, dipping his head.
“Your talents are exceptional,” he says, his voice as smooth as velvet. “Truly a welcome I won’t soon forget.”
The queens exchange a glance as they applaud, clearly pleased.
The three women pull on Dante’s arm, forcing him to hunch forward a bit. When they each place a kiss on his cheeks and jaw, my breath leaves me, my stomach roiling. In my head, my dagger has already decapitated them all. But in reality, I keep still.
The dancers giggle, running their hands over his biceps as they sway their hips.
The music fades as the dancers twirl away, leaving behind the scent of honeyed sweat and the low hum of anticipation.
Heat coils around me like a second skin, thick with spice and incense, seeping into my lungs until every breath feels heavy.
My hair sticks to the back of my neck. The thin silk of my dress clings to my spine.
Beside me, Dante sways as he reclaims his seat, his expression guarded beneath a veneer of amusement. But I can see the flush high on his cheeks, the way his hand tightens around the stem of his goblet. He’s trying not to show that the wine is affecting him.
But the queens know it.
The queens recline on their velvet cushions like cats basking in sunlight. Queen Eosla’s mouth curves into a smile as she lifts her hand, fingers glittering with rings.
“You’ve been a most gracious guest, prospective future Prince of Hedera,” she purrs, her voice like molten gold. “But your trial has yet to begin.”
I freeze. His trial? Now?
Dante lowers his goblet slowly. “Oh?”