Cinnamon Rolls and Villainy

Chapter 4

Chapter

Four

A yc doesn’t wait for the glare Yris fires at him before he picks up his tray and darts from the great hall. He lets the side door slam shut behind him but doesn’t make it far before he catches himself on a stained glass window that lines the hallway. It’s sweltering, and he throws open the glass and shoves his face past the enchantment that keeps the castle warm. Outside, night has fallen, and the cold of winter’s dark nips at his cheeks. It’s not the full bite of his childhood village. In Aluina, especially in his village of Hearth within the northwest province, winter came early and left late and roared like a beast the entire time. But the Wyntra air is enough to cool the burn of his cheeks.

He breathes slowly, the way Peregrin taught him, trying to ease away the anxiety—and the pain rising like a tide within him. The moon is nearly full in the sky, casting a silver glow over the courtyard. From here, Ayc can see past the castle walls. To the right, soft lights twinkle from windows in the town. To the left lies the barracks, dark by this hour, and past that, the cliffs which loom over the Bellum Sea. The smell of salt tinges his nose, familiar and comforting.

Slowly, his heart calms. Slowly, his brain stops spinning and focuses on a single thought.

Yris will no longer be Sovereign.

He can’t quite make his brain accept it. He’s watched her sink her nails into every fragment of her power and respond to any threat with only mercilessness. He’s seen people punished for the smallest of infractions. He’s heard of fingers removed when people question orders, tongues cut out to keep people silent, whole people who disappear and are never heard from again. Yris or her Five are all too willing to conduct violence, torture, or murder to keep Yris in power.

But here she is… stepping aside.

The elation of that is short-lived. Because who will have the power if she does not?

Ayc has heard of the Sovereignty Trials before. At festivals, there's always some bard who spins speculative tales of the heroic deeds Yris and her Five did as she proved herself worthy to lead all seven Everadyn clans. Everything in those stories was vague, careful not to give a future participant an unfair advantage.

The rules seem to be fairly simple. Each clan chooses someone who was born within their clan to campaign for Sovereignty. Those victors pick five people to go with them, the only five allowed to assist them on the quests they are given. Whichever victor is first to complete the quests becomes the next Sovereign, proven worthy to lead their people .

Seven clans. Seven victors. Seven people who might replace Yris.

Who will have power over me ?

“I found you,” says a voice Ayc doesn’t recognize.

Ayc turns around, squinting in the dim light of the hallway. Only a few lanterns sway above their heads; a touch of moonlight drifts in through the window. In the mixture of fire and moon, the fae’s hair appears molten. It takes a moment to place the fae as one of the twins from his earlier performance, the one he offered the flower before he disappeared.

Ayc puts a smile back on his face, like he wasn’t having a panic attack moments before. He spins his empty tray in his hands casually. “It seems you did find me. How can I help you?”

The fae stops before him, close enough Ayc can see the crystals spark in their eyelashes with every blink. Despite being human, he’s taller than an average fae, enough that the beautiful fae before him tilts their face up to look at him.

“You owe me a flower. It’s quite rude to offer one and then not follow through.” Their voice is as smooth as the rich cream he layers in between his cakes, laden with suggestion.

Oh.

Oh.

He likes where this is going.

He shoves thoughts of Yris far, far away. He’s sure utter chaos is raining down in the great hall, but whatever happens tonight, or in the next three months, he has no power to control it. He’s never had the luxury of many choices or chances, so when one presents itself so beautifully—one that has the promise to make him forget better than any tonic—he doesn’t turn it away.

“You’re right,” Ayc says, laying a hand over his heart. “It was quite rude of me. My sincerest apologies, um… I’m sorry I didn’t get your name.”

“Wren,” the fae says, stretching out their hand. “She and her pronouns.”

He takes Wren’s hand. It’s as soft as the petals on the roses she still wears as a crown in her hair, and he catches the scent of lavender and vanilla. He imagines her hands have been carefully tended with the lotions and oils the Bromalis are so well known for. Ayc wonders if the rest of her is as soft, as smooth. How her hand might feel brushing down his chest. Lower. Wrapping around him.

Fuck, Ayc. Focus. He hasn’t even given her his name yet.

“I’m Ayc. He and him, generally, but I’d answer to whatever if you’re the one saying it.”

She smiles, catching her lip between her teeth as she does so. It’s a bashful gesture, but it doesn’t match the look in her eyes. The way her brown irises nearly disappear entirely as her pupils widen. She knows exactly what she is doing, exactly what she wants from him. Heat awakens deep in his gut.

He breathes in. Out. Fiddles with his bracelets to ensure they are both secure.

“So,” she says, “about that flower.”

“I seem to have misplaced it back in my quarters.” Ayc gestures with a thumb over his shoulder back toward his pastry kitchen. “If you would like to follow me there, I’d be happy to give it to you.”

He offers her his arm, and she rests her hand in the crook of his elbow. When they reach the pastry kitchen, Ayc peeks in and thanks every god he doesn’t actually believe in that Xylie is no longer sitting on the counter. He sets his tray down among the untouched desserts and leads Wren through the kitchen.

The remaining treats will never be delivered tonight, and he knows he will pay for it later. But for now, Yris can fuck off. She never actually said he had to serve at this party the whole time, and it isn’t his fault if after all these years she doesn’t know how to give commands he can’t worm his way around.

At the back of the kitchen, he opens the door to his bedroom which is hardly larger than a pantry. It holds little, but he’s done the best he can to fill it with things that make it feel like a sanctuary instead of a prison. A dozen blankets and pillows pile on his bed. A dresser, situated behind the door, is covered with rings and pots of nail polish and eyeliner. A bearskin rug, which he received in exchange for baking a wedding cake, lies on the floor, and a tapestry he avoids looking at now hangs on the wall his bed sits against. The scent of baked things—cinnamon and vanilla and flour—permeates over everything.

If Ayc has any doubt why Wren followed him back to this room, she dissolves it as soon as the door swings shut. She grabs him by the collar of his vest and yanks him toward her. Her mouth tastes like fae wine, rich and heady. His hands reach to tangle into her hair, and though it doesn’t blaze like sunlight, it flows like silk through his fingers. He pulls gently, testing, and she rewards him by scraping her teeth along his lower lip.

And fuck, fuck yes.

He presses against her, pushing her back against the door, never losing contact with her mouth. She opens for him, and he claims her with his tongue, getting more of her taste. Her moan goes straight through him, making him harden until he aches, until he forgets everything else but how fucking good her body feels pressed to his.

He tugs the hem of her tunic, and she lifts her arms above her head. He tosses the fabric aside and takes her in. The golden ringlets trail past her collarbones, covering the fullness of her breasts. Such a pity to cover such a piece of art. He brushes the hair aside, uncovers her completely, and places his mouth where the hair was.

“Is this all right?” he asks.

“What a silly question.” Her hands do swift, skilled work ridding him of his vest and shirt. Her hands traverse his torso, and they are every bit as soft as he imagined. He’s not a proud man, and he considers begging for her to continue her path. But instead, she reverses her caresses back to his shoulders. “My twin, Sterling, was who you gave the first flower to. They were interested, too, so we cast stones. I’m really glad I won. Even better that you’re interested. We weren’t sure which one of us you’d favor.”

I like them any way they come, Ayc thinks, but that isn’t the right thing to say when you have a half-naked woman before you.

Instead, he breathes a hot breath against one taut nipple. “Tell me what you like,” he says, before covering her breast with his mouth. He moves his tongue in a lazy circle. She gasps and tangles her fingers into his hair.

Looking down at him, her eyes flash silver.

The first time that happened in the heat of a moment, Ayc was only sixteen. He shrieked and stumbled away from the boy whose mouth was doing something incredibly fascinating only moments before. The boy had to explain that the Everadyn fae’s eyes didn’t only flash silver when they're angry, but also, when they're incredibly aroused . Ayc had kept his eyes shut through his entire first time, but now Ayc smiles at the effect he has on Wren and repeats his attentions to her other breast to make the silver shine brighter. He isn’t used to feeling powerful, and there's power in being wanted.

“I like to be fucked,” she says. “Hard and thoroughly.”

He straightens and drags her closer, grinding his hips against hers so she can feel what those words do to him. She groans, and he wants to swallow that noise down. He aims for her mouth, but she presses a finger to his lips.

She adds, “And only for one night. Just so we are clear.”

He nods. He didn’t expect anything different. No one ever stays for long.

She giggles, a trilling sound. “I’ve never fucked a human before. Do you think you can manage?”

The word ‘human’ is a splash of ice to his veins, the reminder of why in a fae world, his finite life will only ever earn him the position of one night. He will always be too mortal, too weak, for more. And he wants more, someday. But impossible dreams are luxuries he can entertain a different time.

He shakes off the sting.

More to prove; always more to prove.

When he whispers into her ear, his voice is almost not his own. It growls from his throat as he slips the rings from his right hand. The soft thuds of metal hitting the floor punctuate his words. “I think it would be foolish”— thunk —“to underestimate what I’m capable of.” Thunk, thunk.

“Prove it!” she snaps.

“And how would you like me to prove it?” He trails his hand down the slope of her abdomen and slips past the waistband of her leggings. He watches her face as he glides his hand along her center, waiting for the flash of silver that tells him he’s found the right place. When he does, he presses in. Circles slowly. Her breath starts and stops in tiny whimpers. The crystals in her eyelashes sparkle in the moonlight pouring from a window high above.

“There are so many options,” Ayc teases. “Would you like my fingers?” He dips into her. Her head tumbles back against the door with a whine, and he pumps his finger in and out, just to hear that sound again. “Or maybe my tongue?”

She nods her head, her mouth parted.

“I can’t hear you, Wren.”

“Yes,” she says. Almost a pleading, but not quite.

“Yes what, sweetheart?”

“Yes, please .”

A minute later, he is on his knees before her, her leggings gone, one of her bare legs flung over his shoulder, and he is tasting her. Her hands slap against the door as he drags his tongue along her length, swirling around the spot he found with his finger. Her body bucks, and she rocks herself against his mouth. He seizes one of her hips and helps her to find her rhythm.

“That’s right.” He pauses long enough to coax. “Fuck my tongue like a good girl. Don’t hold back.”

Her eyes flash: two full moons in the dark. Her fingers latch into his hair as she does just that— riding his mouth as he exchanges broad sweeps of his tongue with fast flicks at her clit. He listens to her body, her little moans, studying her the way he studies a new recipe, adjusting to get it just right .

He slides two fingers into her tight warmth, and her movement freezes. She yanks so hard on his hair it hurts, and he loves it. Fucking loves it. Her muscles tighten on his fingers, and he pumps hard. He licks and nips, as her back arches off the door. Her legs shudder and threaten to buckle. She bites down on her own hand to muffle her moan.

When her convulsions slow, he tastes her, drinks her in one last time. She gasps, leaning heavily against the door. She is a piece of art, all spent and panting for him.

He pushes himself to his feet and cocks his head. “Did I prove myself?”

She grasps at his belt with frantic hands. He stumbles out of his boots and trousers, and she steps back to take a look at him. But his need is too great to contain now. He seizes her hips and turns her. He fists a hand into her hair and pushes her against the door. She yelps in surprise, and he freezes.

He begins to loosen his hold, but she says swiftly, “Don’t. I like it. Just... are you on the monthly potion?”

The potion. The one that tastes like soured cream but protects from both infection and pregnancy. “Yes.”

“Good. Me, too. Now, please, fuck me. Hard and fast.”

Ayc slips out of the last layer of fabric and takes himself into his own hand, lining himself up with her entrance. He goes slow at first, listening to her body, waiting for her to relax around him. And yes, she feels every bit as wonderful as he imagined. She moans, and his restraint breaks. He thrusts the rest of the way into her. She cries out, first a “Fuck” and then a “Yes.”

“Spread your feet wider for me,” Ayc says. “You can take me deeper.”

She does and arches her back for good measure. He strokes one hand down the angle of her spine before fitting his palm to her hip, then wraps her golden strands around his other hand. When he has her just as he wants her, he drives deep, hard, like she asked for. She responds to him, rocking against him, and soon he finds a rhythm that has him seeing red.

She turns her head, biting into her forearm to remain silent.

“None of that. Don’t cover that pretty mouth. I want to hear you.”

He tugs on her hair until she arches against him, her bare back flesh against his chest. Each thrust drives her onto her toes and works a cry from her mouth. He buries his face in her neck, dragging first his lips and then his tongue in the soft place where her pulse thrums.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

That little vibration flickers through him. He revels in the way it speeds up with every thrust, the way it falls out of rhythm when he shifts her hip and finds the perfect angle. The way it almost stops completely when she throws her head back against his shoulder and cries out his name.

The heat in him is too much. It will all be over soon. So, he slips his hand between her legs. “Come for me again. Let me feel you.”

She does, and the way she screams takes him over the edge with her. He grinds his teeth together to hold back the growl that forms as pleasure erupts down his spine. He slams his palm into the door, his vision going completely red behind his eyelids.

“All right,” she pants, slack against his chest, her crown of flowers askew. His arm, still hooked around her waist, is the only thing keeping her upright. “I think you proved yourself, but I think I should stick around for an hour or so and try again. Just to be sure.”

When she giggles, he laughs into her hair, trying not to inhale her lavender scent. Trying not to feel anything at all.

“Divine, that’s so good,” Wren says from behind her hand, and Ayc is only slightly disappointed that it is his baking talents that has made the whimpering noise come from her lips this time.

He sweeps his thumb across her chin to wipe up the chocolate mousse that has dripped there. He dips it into his mouth, the chocolate tasting salty from the contact with her skin.

“So, what do you think of the Sovereign’s announcement?” Wren asks. “I take it by your reaction you were surprised.”

His grin twists into something a little more sheepish. “I think the whole court now knows I was completely unaware.”

She laughs softly, then presses the back of her hand over her lip to silence the musical noise. “I think all of us were thinking what you were brave enough to say. I assumed Yris would take every last day of the hundred years that law permits each Sovereign. It's strange that she's giving up her power.”

Talking about Yris isn’t something Ayc ever wants to do but talking about her now— when there’s a naked person in his bed, draped in blond curls and moonlight—is especially distasteful . He has nothing to add, so he leans his back against the wall. The tapestry hanging there brushes against his spine. He tries not to think about that particular piece of art. He never should have bought it.

Wren searches his face as she nibbles at a lemon biscuit, selected from the plate of assorted baked goods he assembled for her. “Do you think you’ll still be her personal baker and magician once she’s no longer Sovereign?”

Ayc almost flinches. “I don’t know.” It’s as honest as he can be. Long ago, he was bound to serve the Sovereign, and he suspects that oath will transfer to whoever succeeds her. The unknown causes a scream to build in his chest. He forces himself to take a calming breath. “Each clan picks their own victor, correct?”

“Yes.” Wren plucks a chocolate-covered strawberry from the plate and sucks it between her lips. Ayc looks away before he loses his focus to more sinful thoughts.

“How are they chosen?” he asks.

“Different ways. I was only a little kid during the last Sovereignty Trials.”

Ayc blinks, studying Wren’s face. She doesn’t look any older than him, and yet, she’s lived over twice as many years.

“Noxumbra and Audori generally host a tournament,” Wren continues. “Several of the clans, like Bromalis and the Totus Omni, have a meeting where there are nominations and votes.”

Wren talks with her hands, big and bold and enthusiastically. A smile tugs on his lips, a little glow of warmth behind his breastbone. He likes that—her expressiveness.

Stop it. No getting attached.

He imagines dumping water on that little glow. Cold and frigid .

“Lux Aester will probably pray and ask the divine to appoint someone.” Wren gasps. “Which means it’ll be?—”

“Marcellus,” Ayc mutters.

“Marcellus,” she agrees.

There’s the frigid water he needed.

Please anyone but him. If there is anyone who might be worse than Yris, it’d be Marcellus. He would destroy everything good, every layer of diversity Ayc has come to love about the Everadyn people. If Yris is Ayc’s villain, then Marcellus would be a nightmare, one with no hope of ever waking from.

Perhaps Ayc’s distress shows on his face because Wren touches his arm gently. “He won’t win. There’s too many people likely to compete who are stronger than him.”

“Who would you want to win?”

She answers quickly, like she’s already thought about it. “I think Sterling, my twin, would make a great leader. They’re kind and strong and wise. They have wonderful ideas about how to make Everadyn better, smooth relations between the clans, do something about the Lux Aester and the damn restrictive laws that they enforce within their clan. Maybe even—” She pauses, pursing her lips, as though trying to decide if she should say more, and then finishes, “Well, they have lots of brilliant ideas.”

Ayc moves the plate of food out from between them so he can move closer. She sits with her knees pulled toward her chest and he spreads his legs on either side of her, so his chest nearly touches her calves. Not close enough, but it’ll do. “Why not you?”

“Oh, no. Sterling is good all the way through, but me?” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I have a wicked side.”

Ayc wiggles his eyebrows and teases, “Do you? ”

“Yes,” she says with a wink that makes him sincerely doubt her answer.

“Are you a warrior, then?”

“Worse.” She leans closer. “A herbalist.”

Ayc throws back his head and laughs.

“Don’t laugh,” she says, but the sternness she aims for is broken by her own, barely restrained giggle. “I run the most popular herbal shop in Orchis. I’ve had people come from all over Everadyn to seek my advice, knowledge, and supplies. And besides, plants are no joking matter.”

“Oh, I know,” Ayc admits sincerely. There’s not much difference between being an apothecary and being an herbalist. Before Evander died, he taught Ayc a lot.

She cocks her head curiously. “Oh? And what do you know of plants?”

Ayc fumbles with his smile. He’s neared too close to his past. He quickly covers his error. “I’m a baker, remember? Got to know which plants will make something taste like eternal paradise and which will send you there.”

Ayc trails his hand over her calf to distract her. It works, because she shivers and talks a little faster to hide it.

“As I was saying, the type of power that comes with being Sovereign is best left to those who are pure-hearted, like Sterling. But then, that’s what worries me. No one survives the Sovereignty Trials without being a little vicious. The Trials are brutal, bound by very few rules. Almost anything goes in completing the quests, including violence between the victors and their teams. Generally, the one who wins is the one most willing to fight dirty. It’s why I don’t think Marcellus will win. He has too many rules to keep his version of the divine happy.”

“I think that’s giving him too much credit,” Ayc says, dipping his head to press a kiss to the inside of her knee. She lets out a little breath.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t trust that he loves the divine. I think he loves the power.”

“Maybe.” She studies Ayc thoughtfully. “Sterling will have to choose their Five well, to be more ruthless than they’re capable of being. The competition will be fierce. Marcellus, maybe. Loraphne, certainly.”

Ayc’s hand freezes halfway down her thigh. “Loraphne?”

“Yes, the child of the reigning Sovereign almost always competes. Yris’s father was the Sovereign before her. Loraphne is certainly going to compete. She could probably build a Five out of people who have graduated from Adamant or Velphin, and no one would stand a chance.”

A cool sweat breaks out across Ayc’s back. He drops his hand from Wren. He glances at the door as the familiar desire to run blazes through his legs. But he tried running once. It only ended in more chains.

Lora can’t win. He cannot spend the rest of his life serving her, instead of her mother. He’s watched Yris mold Lora in her own image for ten years. It will be another several decades of torment.

Soft fingertips touch the stubble at his jaw. “Hey, where’d you go?”

Wren hovers inches from his face, her eyes gleaming in the moonlight. They are filled with actual concern. For him . His heart contracts.

Stop that.

“Sorry,” Ayc says, spinning a strand of her hair around his finger. “I just got in my own head for a second.”

“Hm.” She leans in, her lips close to his ear. “Bet I could get you out of it.” Her words turn to kisses on his jaw, down his neck. Her hand slips downward, over his chest, into his lap. A low growl involuntarily leaves his lips as her fingers wrap around him.

“I liked that noise,” she giggles. “Let’s see if I can make it better with my mouth.”

Oh, yes, definitely. Do that.

She has dipped her head when a soft bell hanging from the ceiling in the corner chimes. Ayc stiffens and catches her wrist.

She straightens and whispers, “What is it?”

“It’s charmed to ring whenever my kitchen door opens,” Ayc says. “Someone is here.”

Her eyes jerk to the door, flashing silver. She’s already starting to move off the bed when Ayc tightens his hold on her wrist.

“No, stay. It’s probably just a friend of mine. She doesn’t do well with strangers.” If it is Xylie, that is, but something in the way Ayc’s hair stands on end, he doesn’t think so.

Wren sinks back on the bed as he stands. “Do you have a wife?”

He opens his mouth in a soundless laugh. “No.” He grabs his shirt and pants from the floor and slips into them. As he approaches the door, he removes his bracelets and tucks them into his pants’ pockets. He opens the door only a crack, grabs the sword that leans against the wall nearby, and slips into the shadows.

The intruder has already made it to the icebox, where he placed his leftover pastries. In the icebox’s light, Ayc can only make out a silhouette of wide hips and broad shoulders. And that’s all he needs to place her.

He pauses a few feet away, out of the light where he knows she can’t see him. He watches as she selects a glass bowl of chocolate pudding from the fridge. She closes the door, and the darkness thickens. It isn’t the first time she’s come to raid the sweets from his kitchen. She’s done it dozens of times. All the times before, he always simply watched until she snuck back out again. He doesn’t know why this time is different, what compels him forward. Perhaps because it’s been over four years since she’s done it, or perhaps he’s merely reckless. But this time, he steps closer.

He’s just out of arm’s reach when he wills himself out of the shadows. “If it isn’t the great pudding thief…”

Mistake.

It’s a stupid, fucking mistake.

She moves in a blur, honed from years of training, and in only a handful of seconds, it’s over. She’s kicked the sword from his hand and slammed him against the wall. He can’t draw a breath, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the dagger she’s pressing to his throat, the glow of silver in her eyes, or how she’s managed to do all that without dropping the damn bowl of pudding.

He’s lost count of the amount of times Lora has cut off his air supply. She does it so effortlessly. He resists the urge to shove her away, to end the unsettling feeling of her nearness. Instead, he relaxes against the wall and gives her his best, cheeky grin.

“Knife to see you too, villainess,” Ayc says.

“You should know better than to sneak up on me, cinnamon roll.” Her eyes fade back to a dark brown. She releases him, takes two steps back, and sheathes her dagger at her side.

Ayc rubs at his throat, soothing his molten skin with his cool palm. “Says the person sneaking into my room in the middle of the night.”

Lora lifts her chin and glares at him. She’s dressed in the same skin-tight black clothes as earlier, but a loose, gray cardigan has replaced her armor. It drapes off one shoulder, its knitted pattern forming rows that sweep and twirl until they give the illusion of a never-ending forest.

“I was hungry,” she says flatly.

“And there isn’t a whole other kitchen you could raid? You had to come to mine?” Ayc turns on a nearby lamp mounted to the wall beside him, then steps to a nearby counter, opens a drawer, and pulls out a spoon. “You know, you could just admit that I make amazing pudding, and you were devastated you didn’t get any at the party.”

She gives him a look like she'd rather die.

He offers her the spoon. She eyes it like it’s a weapon and doesn’t take it, so he flicks it at her face. She snatches it from the air with such ease it might as well have been standing still.

“Enjoy your pudding,” Ayc says. “Next time, just knock and ask instead of staging a robbery and nearly slaughtering me in my own home.”

He walks around her, picks his sword off the floor and tosses it on the counter. He reaches into his pocket to pull out his bracelets and put them on. Lora hasn’t moved toward the door; instead, she stares at the sword on the table.

“Why do you have that?” Lora asks.

“Protection.”

Lora snorts. The dull blade bears more than a few chips and dents. It was an old training sword he found tossed aside as a teen and would do little against an actual intruder. “I guess it’s a good thing it’s not sharp, because you’re more likely to stab yourself. I remember when Peregrin attempted to teach you. I would trust a toddler to run with a knife before I trusted you to fight.”

Ayc shrugs and plants his hands on the table. He remembers, too, the way his arms shook as he held a sword for the first time. He was only fourteen then, knowing Yris watched him closely. By then, she knew about his ability to turn invisible, and Ayc feared what she might make him become if he showed a talent with a blade.

Anything she wanted. The very darkest of weapons.

Fortunately, he proved to be what she suspected: a weak human, good to entertain and bake and nothing more. Invisibility might have been a useful ability for her—if someone other than silly, pathetic Ayc was blessed with the talent.

Lora stabs the spoon into the pudding, then stirs it much more gently. He almost tells her to stop; the consistency is already extra whipped, the way she likes it. For her, the texture is more important than the taste. Instead, he watches her, the same way he imagines people watch a dragon who has entered their home unexpectedly. She finally lifts the spoon to her mouth and, afterward, licks her lips.

“Did you know?” Ayc asks, looking pointedly away from her mouth. “That your mother was about to call the Trials?”

Her hand holding the spoon twitches. Ayc doesn’t actually expect her to answer, but at last, she murmurs, “My mother only tells her plans to those she trusts the most.”

“Which excludes you?”

Something flickers over her face; Ayc can’t place it before it’s gone. Her voice remains monotone. “I suspected something when she summoned me from Adamant two weeks from graduation.”

And, of course, Lora came running. Ayc and Lora both stand at attention when Yris snaps her fingers. But Ayc does it because he ran out of choices long ago, and Lora does it out of loyalty. They couldn’t be more different.

She takes another bite, and Ayc dares to ask, “Do you want to be Sovereign?”

“Of course I plan to compete.” Her answer is quick—too quick—punctuated by her eyes transforming from a steely, tired gray to a sharper onyx black. “It’s what I’ve been raised to do since the moment I was born.”

Ayc releases a tight sigh. He doesn’t point out that her words fail to answer his question.

“Ayc.”

Wren stands in the small opening in his doorway, looking utterly divine in only her sunset-hued tunic.

Lora stiffens with the spoon near her lips. Her gaze flicks between Ayc and Wren, before she drops the spoon. It plunks into the pudding.

“I didn’t realize you had company,” Lora says, her words turning into a hiss, her eyes narrowing as she fixes on Wren. “Especially such poor taste in company.”

Wren only smiles graciously, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s lovely to see you, too, Lora. It’s been a long time. Seven years, right?”

Tension crackles from Lora, like a lightning storm approaching, and her fingers twitch toward the dagger at her side. Ayc swiftly maneuvers himself between the two women. Clearly some bad blood exists between the two, and he very much does not want a knife imbedded in Wren’s throat .

“Wren, sorry,” Ayc says. “Loraphne was just taking her pudding and leaving.” He gives her a pointed look and gestures to the door with a swirl of his wrist.

She narrows her eyes further, until they are dark slits, but her hand doesn’t move closer to the dagger. Instead, she turns on her heel and marches in the… opposite direction of the door, toward the icebox. She whips it open, balances a plate of fruit tarts on the pudding bowl, and then grabs a pan of cinnamon rolls, which glisten with spirals of icing. She kicks the icebox closed and sends Ayc a glare that dares him to protest. He doesn’t.

“Have they not been feeding you in that warrior school of yours?” Ayc asks instead.

“Some of it is for Bronwen,” she says as she makes her way to the door.

“Good. I hope you both enjoy it. Oh, and you should go see your cousin.”

Lora pauses, and the set of her shoulders softens at the mention of Xylie. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“And you think Xylie is sleeping? It’s like you don’t know her at all. She’s not here brewing, so if she’s not in her room, I’d check in?—"

“The library,” Lora finishes for him. “I know.” She reaches for the doorknob with her elbow.

“And Lora…”

She glances at him over her shoulder. He makes a face, crossing his eyes, sticking out his tongue. She rolls her eyes, a fracture in her stony demeanor. He’ll take it.

“Good luck with the Trials,” he says, but he’s never meant anything less.

When Lora is gone, Ayc returns to Wren’s side. Without hesitation, she pulls him back to the bed, undressing him, burying her fingers into his hair as she presses her body to his.

“I didn’t realize,” she says, teeth grazing his ear, “that you and Loraphne were so close.”

He laughs hard, because nothing has ever been funnier. The noise cuts off as her legs wrap around his waist, yanking him close to her center. She grinds against him, and it takes a moment of pained cursing before he can make himself respond. “You know what they say about friends and enemies.”

“Keep your enemies closer? I thought that was only so you could more easily slide a knife between their ribs.”

“Exactly.” That sums up his relationship with Lora perfectly. Knives hidden behind verbal jabs and chocolate pudding and poorly timed jokes.

The ache in his back isn’t quiet at the moment, so Ayc grasps Wren’s hips and flips their positions, so she rises above him. She strips her tunic from her body and tosses it to the side. He positions his hands behind his head and grins up at her. She is all gold and silver in the moonlight. He desires to think of nothing else.

“Should I be jealous?” she asks.

“Why would you be jealous? As you said, this is only for the night.”

“Then let’s not waste it.”

They do not. Not a single second.