14. 13
Mabel’s fingers traced along worn leather spines. Shelves shadowed her between their towering forms as though they were sentinels shielding her from watchful eyes. She needed the silence, a moment to escape from everything.
Carefully, she plucked a book from the shelf, skimming the title before adding it to the growing pile in her arms. Afternoon light spilled through the arched windows at the far end of the room, casting silver rays onto the plush lounge.
Mabel padded over silently and set the books down on the wooden table.
The pounding in her head had dulled to a low hum, and though she wanted silence, she hadn’t wanted to sit around in her room, avoiding Theodore, any longer.
“Do you not allow yourself moments of peace?” An all-too-familiar voice called.
She fought the sigh threatening to leave her lips. Silence over. She turned to meet those golden eyes.
He’d curled a few locs into a knot, tucked nicely together with a black silky tie. The remaining coils dripped down his shoulder like ink spilling on paper.
Her heart stuttered.
“Perhaps this was my moment of peace—and you’ve just interrupted it. You do seem rather fond of doing so,” she teased. Her gaze wandered over him. Dark leather vest worn to softness, black tunic beneath it billowing at the cuffs. His trousers clung to long legs, the cut sharp.
He looked maddeningly good in leather. Even better in black.
Lance couldn’t stop the smile curving on his lips. “I’m fond of you.”
Mabel could feel the rush of warmth on her cheeks. “Stop.” She barely managed the word. She quickly cleared her throat, turning sharply toward her assortment of books. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some reading to do.”
Not that she wanted him to leave. She needed him to leave, just as much as she needed him.
His long legs carried him over anyway, pausing at the table and eyeing the books she’d grabbed. “You plan to read all of these in an afternoon?”
She sank down on the lounge, snatching a leather cover irritably and cracking it open. “Seems I won’t even finish the first,” she groaned, side-glancing him.
Lance shifted on his feet. He studied her carefully. “Do you … do you not remember last night?”
Mabel’s fingers froze on the corner of the page she was turning before closing the book. She discarded it on the table, turning in her seat to fully look at him. She’d never seen him nervous before. His words were usually sharp, effortless. But now he stood before her, uncertain.
“Of course I remember,” she said softly. Her hands busied themselves by pressing out the wrinkles on the skirt of her dress. “I fear it’s a night I’ll never be able to forget.”
“Then why the cold shoulder?” he hummed, trying for a smile that fell flat.
She could feel her heart pounding as he sank onto the cushion beside her. Cinnamon and warmth flooded her senses. She couldn’t stop herself from leaning in closer, gaze dropping to his full lips. “Because I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything. And that can’t happen.”
“Why?” he whispered, his hand sliding next to hers on the seat.
“I have a duty to fulfill. If anyone were to discover what we’ve done …” her voice trailed off, her cheeks flushed. Their faces were inches apart, warm breath mingling.
His eyes scanned her features. He could see the want, the lust swirling behind her eyes. Her failure at subtlety every time she inched closer. The only sign of restraint was her balled-up fists, knuckles white, nails no doubt digging into her palms.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asked, but a smirk toyed on his lips.
“I think I’ve made that obvious.” She cleared her throat, lifting her chin.
“Have you?” He tilted his head, looking her up and down. “Because right now, everything about you is saying otherwise.”
Mabel bit her lip, a whine barely escaping her. “That’s why you need to leave.”
“And if I don’t?”
Her lips met his in a rush, full of longing. Lance’s hands slid behind her neck, pulling her in. Her fingers curled into the front of his tunic, anchoring herself to him.
She felt the pulse of desire spread through her like wildfire. The need for distraction. The need for him. When he kissed her, everything fell away. Theodore, her father. It was only him. And it was a pleasure she didn’t think she could keep herself from.
They broke apart only long enough to breathe before crashing together again, lips desperate, hands searching.
When he pulled away, she chased him—hands lifting to his cheeks, pulling him back down to meet her mouth.
“Mabel,” he groaned into the kiss, voice frayed with restraint.
His hands gripped her hips through the wool, fingers digging in like he could memorize her shape. She gasped against him, arms winding around his shoulders, nails catching on fabric.
“Gods, Mabel,” he groaned, his mouth trailing down her neck, teeth grazing skin in a way that made her breath catch.
“Lance,” she pleaded. Her fingers looped into his vest and yanked him forward. Her back sank into the plush lounge. Her grip on him was tight as she pulled him over her. Her hips bucked to meet his. Her breath was hot and quick. Her eyes wild with want, with need.
But then—he pulled back. Reluctant. Controlled.
He stood, hands curling at his sides like he needed somewhere to put the heat still burning in them.
A chill rushed in with his absence. Her chest rose sharply, eyes blinking open to find his back tense, shoulders drawn tight as though he were holding something in.
“Are you alright?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
At the sound of her voice, his shoulders eased just slightly. He turned, hands unclenching, gaze flicking to hers. “Sorry,” he said, breath uneven. “I … I was getting carried away.”
She studied him. The faint flicker of light at his palms, barely there, but unmistakable. He tucked his hands behind his back when he saw her looking.
“What’s wrong?” she asked softly, standing from the lounge.
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, eyes distant, as if weighing how much truth he could afford to give. Then, slowly, he extended his palm.
Sparks danced across his skin, small, erratic, sparking in time with his heart.
“My magic … flares,” he said quietly. “When I feel too much. It surges. Unpredictable. I’ve trained to control it, but sometimes …” he trailed off, fingers twitching. “I don’t want to risk hurting you—even by accident.”
There was more he wasn’t saying. She could feel it. But she didn’t move, just watched him, the space between them humming with restraint and something deeper.
“Frey told me,” she said. “You’re Velmirian.”
Lance stilled, hand dropping to his side as he eyed her. “I am,” he said after a beat. “At least that’s what Thalen told me. He found me after the siege. Said I was barely a month old.”
She tilted her head, searching his face. “Is that why your magic flares?”
Lance’s gaze drifted upward, distant. “Probably. They say Velmirian blood carries magic in every drop. I don’t know if that’s true. I just know I feel things others don’t.” His hands clenched at his sides.
“You do,” she said, voice sure. “I’ve seen it. You move like the magic listens to you.”
He smiled faintly, but his eyes didn’t hold it. “Sometimes I wonder what I’d be if Velmira hadn’t burned. If I’d grown up there. If I’d had a name that wasn’t given by the man who destroyed it.”
Mabel finally stepped toward him and reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. She felt the dulling hum in his palm. “Have you ever thought about going back?”
Lance’s brows drew together. “Back?” he scoffed. “To stare at ash and ruin? It’s inhospitable, Mabel. Nothing’s left.”
She shook her head. “I meant for your magic. Maybe there’s something still waiting for you there.”
He sighed, eyes tracing the soft curves of her face and the rosiness still clinging to her cheeks. “The frost-fire wiped it clean. They recovered what they could but there’re no relics. No survivors. No one’s dared to make the journey since.”
“You survived,” she said softly. “Maybe you could make it.”
He smirked, tugging her closer. “Only if you came with me.”
“I’m serious, Lance,” she pressed. “Why haven’t you tried?”
He exhaled, gaze narrowing with mock seriousness. “Let’s see. First, I’d have to survive the Mirewilde.”
“Easy.” She blinked, feigning innocence. “I was a child and brave enough to do it.”
“Mabel.” He laughed. “It’s impassible. If the spirits didn’t drag me under, the beasts would tear me to pieces.”
“Maybe not,” she said, eyes gleaming. “If you’re truly Velmirian, wouldn’t they let you pass?”
He tilted his head. “That’s a generous theory.”
“Well,” she hummed, “there’s only one way to test it.”
He gave her a look. “Say I do make it through—somehow—I’d still have to face Valkaroth. And they don’t exactly roll out the welcome mats for Northerners.”
“Technically,” she said, brushing his shoulder, “you’re southern.”
He huffed a laugh. “Sure. Let’s see how far that gets me.”
“They’re gullible,” she teased, lips curving.
He raised a brow. “And when’s the last time you met someone from Valkaroth?”
“In Moorthwyn,” she said casually, as if it meant nothing.
Lance stepped back, frowning. “What do you mean?”
She caught the shift in his tone, his posture. “Don’t tell me the Queen of Valkaroth has never visited Aurevyn.”
“She hasn’t,” Lance said, voice sharp.
“My father met with her and her court several times,” Mabel said, shaking her head. “Terrifying woman. But her council were idiots.”
Lance’s expression darkened. “Why was he meeting with Valkaroth?”
“I don’t know—strategy, politics.” She shrugged. “Why does it matter?”
“Mabel,” he said, almost incredulous. “Valkaroth ordered the assassination of King Alric.”
She blinked, frowning. “No. That’s not right. It was Velmira. That’s why they burned it to the ground.”
“Yes,” Lance groaned, jaw tight. “Velmira carried it out. But Valkaroth couldn’t breach Aurevyn themselves. They used Velmira’s magic—manipulated them. And when the deed was done, they let Velmira take the fall.”
Mabel’s breath caught.