Chapter 25 #2
Her saccharine smile stays in place, though she looks momentarily stunned, as though she isn't used to people responding with any sort of bite to her bullying. She opens her mouth to reply, but Briar interrupts.
“Unless you'd like me to carve some interesting things into your ugly face, I suggest you all keep moving.”
“How positively barbaric,” Lady Desna says, still smiling even as she lets out an indignant huff.
She exchanges a purposeful look with her entourage. They seem to reach a collective, wordless agreement and quickly flounce away, leaving Briar and me with only two of the group—two men who introduced themselves as Lord Hest and Lord Ferris, if I recall correctly.
“Don't listen to them,” Lord Hest says, shoving his hands into his pockets and giving me a good-natured grin. “I think it's fascinating that you come from the Ashlands.”
“Agreed,” says Lord Ferris.
“Fascinating.” Briar snorts. “Like an exotic animal in a cage is fascinating?”
Lord Hest's smile wilts a bit. “Well, erm, no, not exactly, but…”
“But that's more or less what you meant,” she finishes, tilting her head at him with a vicious smile.
Before he can reply, someone clears their throat behind me. Something like fear flashes in Lord Hest's eyes as a hand comes to rest on my lower back. A familiar scent washes over me, along with the subtle tingle of power that often precedes Reave.
“Gentlemen,” he says in a cool, dismissive tone.
They both give hasty bows before hurrying away.
Briar continues to seethe as she watches them go. “Just out of curiosity,” she says, glancing at Reave, “if I were to slap a high-ranking visitor on behalf of our Lady Arowyn, would I be granted immunity?”
“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you ask that question,” he says, pulling his hand away from me and adjusting the cuffs of his coat, “and I'll be conveniently looking the other way should you choose to do anything of the sort.”
A corner of Briar's mouth curves slightly before she dismisses herself and heads off in search of something stronger to drink.
“I hope you know she's entirely serious about slapping people,” I tell Reave. “And you'll be lucky if she stops at a slap. You should be careful about encouraging her.”
“I've dealt with worse scandals.” His hand settles against me once more, this time around my side, his eyes tracking the two men he chased away.
“You're being awfully possessive for a man who's only pretending,” I comment.
“I'm merely trying to make our act believable.” His fingers tap thoughtfully against me. “I have a reputation, after all; it's no secret that the Mouren King protects what's his.”
A little thrill winds through me at the way he says his.
I can't help it.
I try to guard against the heat spreading out from his touch, but it's impossible. I couldn't stop it earlier, and the haze brought on by alcohol and exhausted nerves has done nothing to dull the effect.
The musicians strike up a cheerful waltz, luring several dozen couples onto the dance floor. Eager to move toward something with more expected, predictable steps, I ask, “Does the Mouren King dance?”
Reave cants his head. “He does. For the sake of keeping up appearances.”
I hold out my hand. “Then let's continue our ruse, shall we?”
We take to the center of the pavilion's polished floor, parting the crowd as we go.
I don't pay much attention to anyone watching us.
I can't. My good eye has to remain focused on the king in order to stay in sync with him, to not lose my footing.
It's one reason I don't care much for crowds; it's hard to orient myself within them when I can hear and sense—but not see—all of the bodies pressing and shifting around me.
But as long as the king is holding on to me, people keep a wide, respectful distance, which makes it easier to remain steady.
We dance to one song, then another, the world narrowing down to the space between us and the slow turn of the floor beneath our feet.
“You're good at this,” he compliments.
“You sound shocked.”
“You told me yourself that there weren't many formal, polite parties where you come from.”
“Did you know that it's entirely possible to dance without luxurious dresses or a crowd full of fancy people judging your performance?”
“I didn't.” His smile is crooked. “Who would have guessed?”
He twirls me once, gently, and I lose myself in the motion, slipping briefly into my few cherished memories of warmer, happier nights back in Halvgate.
Of rare occasions when we put our work aside and danced around bonfires and laughed and drank until we were too tired to stand.
Nothing so extravagant as this, of course, but it was enough to keep us going, to remind us that life is still worth living even when it’s hard.
I don't tell him it was Malachi who taught me how to dance. Now doesn't seem like the appropriate time to bring up the once love of my life—particularly since Reave is yet again glaring in the direction of the two men he drove away.
“You terrified those poor bastards.”
He blinks, pulling his gaze back to me. “An occasional dose of fear is healthy for a person.”
“But was it necessary?”
“Yes. Because I didn’t like the way they were looking at you—like they were sizing you up, thinking about what position they most wanted to fuck you in.”
“How do you know that’s what they were thinking?”
“Because that dress of yours is having the same effect on most of the men present, I’m assuming.”
“Is it having that effect on you?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“I’m not quite so easily rattled,” he replies, twirling me again, then drawing me closer as he adds, “besides: I’ve already decided.”
“Decided?”
“On what position I most want to fuck you in.”
Heat floods through my entire body, pooling dangerously between my thighs. “You’re very committed to this act.”
“I rarely do anything halfway.”
“Of course not. Always important to follow through for the sake of appearances, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“And is our appearance satisfying to you thus far, Your Majesty?”
He chuckles. “So formal.”
“Yes, because this is an ongoing business transaction.”
“Secured by a verbal addendum that you didn't take the time to detail or put to paper,” he reminds me, guiding me through another slow turn. “So, what if I said I wasn't satisfied?”
I run my tongue over my suddenly dry lips. “I would endeavor to do better.”
His brows lift.
“I didn’t become successful in my line of work by failing to satisfy my clients.”
“Client,” he mutters. “I suppose that’s what I am to you.”
“And I’m just property to you.”
“Fucking exasperating woman.”
I smirk.
The song ends, and the musicians strike up something much more lively. Neither of us feels like dancing to it, so Reave escorts me to a row of refreshment tables instead, procuring drinks for both of us.
“To satisfaction,” he toasts, locking his eyes with mine.
I clink my glass against his.