Chapter 40
Crisp morning air filled my lungs, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint, lingering traces of last night’s storm. I stood in the courtyard, adjusting the fabric of my dress, trying to ignore the quiet unease curling in my stomach.
The gown was beautiful—a deep forest green, flowing, elegant, its intricate embroidery whispering of status and intention.
It fit perfectly, hugging the curves that had returned to my frame.
A year of running and starving had stripped them from me, carving my body down to sinew and desperation.
But the fae magic that now lived in me seemed to have hurried along their return.
I’d always had a curvier figure, and its return was comforting, in a strange way—like reclaiming a piece of my old self.
But still, the gown felt wrong.
To me, it was a cage. Its weight coiled around my limbs, the fabric too fine, too delicate. If this went wrong, if the meeting turned, it would not be an outfit for survival.
It would be a damned death sentence.
I sensed him before I heard him. Before he even stepped close enough for our breaths to share the same air. His presence wasn’t merely something to be noticed, it kissed my skin with quiet intent.
Varyth stood behind me, his body brushing lightly against mine, a wall of strength.
Then his nose skimmed the curve of my throat. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, not touching beyond that single, maddening brush, as though memorising the shape of me without his hands.
When his voice finally came, it was a murmur made of silk. “You look… perfect.”
Perfect.
A word that should have soothed me but instead was a chain. Because perfection was fragile, and fragile things shattered when struck hard enough.
His hands settled on my waist, and I leaned back into him. It wasn’t a decision. It was instinct. His grip tightened in response, fingers flexing against my hips as a low, guttural sound rumbled from his chest.
He pressed closer, fitting himself to the curve of my spine. The heat of him bled through my skin. I could feel every breath he took, every tremor of restraint vibrating through him.
And then his lips touched my neck.
A featherlight brush. A sin of a kiss.
He traced a path up the line of my throat until my head tipped slightly of its own accord, giving him more.
Reality slipped.
Thought dissolved.
There was only the warmth of his breath against my skin, the pressure of his hands grounding me while everything else threatened to fall away.
Each press of his mouth was careful, but there was heat beneath it. A simmering, restrained hunger.
My hands lifted, one finding the back of his hand where it gripped my waist, the other slipping into his hair. Silken strands curled around my fingers as I held him there, not yet ready to let the world return.
His breath hitched and his grip tightened, one hand sliding slowly, up my side.
“You drive me mad,” he whispered, voice no longer silk, but smoke and want.
I turned in his arms, facing him fully.
His mouth found mine instantly.
There was no gentleness. It was heat and hunger and the desperate thing that lived under our skin. His hand slid up to cradle the side of my face, thumb brushing beneath my jaw.
My hands fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer, deeper, until there was no space left between us. He tasted like whiskey and morning fog and something that had no name. I could’ve drowned in it.
Varyth groaned into my mouth, the sound low and wrecked, vibrating straight through me. His grip tightened at my waist, lifting me slightly.
“You don’t have to come to the meeting,” he murmured against my lips.
I blinked, dizzy from the taste of him. “I thought you wanted me there.”
“I did,” he said, “I do. But I made that decision before—” He stopped, his eyes fluttering closed on a shaky breath.
“You made the decision before… what?”
His eyes opened, and I saw it before he spoke. The edge. The fury.
“Before I had to let Ashterion look at you.” A downright feral snarl threaded through every word, like he might rip through worlds to erase Ashterion’s gaze from ever touching me.
I fought the urge to shove him. I wasn’t some fragile object to be hidden behind a High Lord’s temper and power. I’d certainly survived worse than a stare.
But a laugh slipped past my lips. Soft. Disbelieving. And a little breathless.
“Varyth,” I murmured, brushing a hand down his chest, my fingers catching slightly on the fabric of his jacket. “He’s not going to hurt me with a look.”
“I don’t care.”
My amusement warred with something darker. Something wary. “Do you plan to blind every male who looks at me?”
“If I could, I would.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I sighed, torn between rolling my eyes and pressing back into him until nothing else existed.
“And you’re maddening.” His hands tightened enough to remind me he could pin me, devour me—if I let him.
And gods help me, part of me wanted to.
The other part?
Still had a dagger tucked behind my spine.
I smirked up at him, voice low. “Good. Keep being mad. It suits you.”
His mouth crashed into mine.
I gasped, and he swallowed the sound greedily, one hand sliding into my hair and gripping tight, angling me exactly how he wanted.
My spine arched into him, instinct overriding thought, the heat between us sparking. I could feel the edge of his restraint in the way his fingers trembled where they gripped my waist, the way his teeth scraped against my lower lip.
He pulled back enough to drag in a breath. Then his mouth was on me again, tongue sweeping in. There was no room to think, no air to breathe that didn’t taste of him. I moaned into him, utterly shameless.
“Fuck,” Varyth muttered against my lips. Then he was gone from my mouth, only to trail his lips down. His breath scalded a path along my jaw, the tip of his nose brushing the curve of my neck.
And then, gods.
He bit. Hard enough to make me gasp, to make my knees buckle if he weren’t holding me. Hard enough to mark.
I arched into it, into him, a sound breaking from my throat that didn’t feel entirely human. His teeth sank just below my jaw, and I felt the bruise bloom there like a brand.
My fingers tangled in his hair as he licked over the bite, soothing it, then bit again, lower this time, where neck met shoulder—as if he couldn’t stand the thought of me not wearing him.
A throat cleared behind us.
We tore apart like we’d been struck.
I stumbled back a step, breathless, lips tingling, heart thundering in my chest. Varyth didn’t look away from me. But his body tensed, his jaw locked as though barely containing a growl of frustration.
Slowly, we turned.
Darian stood with his arms crossed, a shit-eating grin tugging at his mouth, the very picture of smug satisfaction.
His eyes danced with laughter, and I had absolutely no doubt that he was the one who’d cleared his throat.
Beside him, Shaelith looked as though she was strongly considering requesting a court transfer.
Possibly to another realm. Possibly into a volcano.
Fenric and Lincatheron were both doing their best impressions of stone statues. Their expressions were the kind of blank that only came from people who’d seen everything and were desperately pretending they hadn’t.
Cindrissian hadn’t even blinked. He looked vaguely bored, as though catching the High Lord with his tongue down someone’s throat was a regular inconvenience. Which, to be fair, was quickly becoming true.
I took a step back, straightening my dress with what little dignity I could salvage, trying not to visibly combust.
Varyth hadn’t looked away from me, even as the group observed the very public collapse of our willpower.
“You’re early.” His fingers twitched at his sides.
“Actually,” Darian drawled, his grin widening impossibly, “I believe we’re right on time.” His russet eyes gleamed with mischief as he looked between us. “Though I can’t say I blame you, Varyth. After all, that dress is—”
Varyth’s head snapped toward him, a sound tearing from his throat that didn’t belong in any court. A low, rumbling snarl, feral and cold and ancient. It rolled through the space like thunder promising a storm, a predator’s warning that needed no translation.
Darian’s grin vanished. Wiped clean in an instant.
“Finish that sentence,” Varyth said, his voice deadly quiet, “and I’ll rip your tongue from your throat.”
Darian’s jaw snapped shut and he actually took a step back. “Easy,” he said, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Just a joke.”
The temperature dropped. Mist stirred around Varyth’s boots. His jaw clenched once, then again, and the cords in his neck shifted as he forced a breath through his nose.
Shaelith angled herself half a step between Varyth and Darian.
“Varyth,” I said quietly.
“Anyone who speaks of her that way answers to me.” He growled, loud enough for everyone to hear.
I stepped closer to him, placing my hand against his chest. The thrum of his heart beneath my palm was almost violent. “Varyth,” I said again, calm despite the heat lingering in my veins. “It’s just a dress.”
His nostrils flared as he looked down at me. “It’s not just a dress. It’s you in it. And no one gets to comment on how you look. Not in my presence.”
I pressed my fingers more firmly against him, a silent plea for restraint. “Breathe,” I whispered, just for him. “This isn’t the time.”
Something in my tone must have reached him. The High Lord’s shoulders rolled back, his spine going rigid as he reined himself in inch by inch. Varyth’s hand found mine, his touch both protective and reassuring.
Darian cleared his throat again, this time much less theatrical. “Right,” he muttered. “Noted.”
I swallowed hard, still tasting him on my lips, my pulse a mess.
Varyth’s arm slipped around my waist in a movement so smooth it might’ve looked effortless, if it hadn’t been for the way his fingers tightened.