Chapter 38 #2
His hands moved to her wrists, then the tender flesh of her inner arms. Then, the smooth planes of her shoulder blades—deliberate. Igniting trails of fire across her skin through the thin fabric.
She kept her breathing even. Fought to keep her hands still.
“I worked with more efficiency than that,” she bit out.
“You weren’t nearly as thorough.” His breath was warm on her ear.
Her breath hitched as the pads of his fingers ran across every divot of her spine, caressing the small of her back and skimming the waistband of her trousers till they reached her front.
Both hands thumbed over her shoulders, the swell of her breasts. His voice dropped lower. “And I had the decency not to make you undress.”
“You call this decent?”
His hands circled her waist. Pressed firmly over her hips.
Her waistband shifted with the force of it, his fingertips dragging.
He turned her away from him suddenly, jostling the table, the poisoned needles bouncing on the floor.
“You’d prefer to undress?”
“It’d be faster, and you’re already treating me like a criminal.” She huffed a laugh.
“Old habits.” He dipped his skillful fingers into her pockets, all the way down, against the sensitive crease of her inner thigh, slow and thorough.
She subconsciously pressed her hips back and cursed inwardly. “We already know you’ve fantasized about that, so move on.”
He gave an amused hum. “You could barely stand then, too.”
She trembled imperceptibly. He noticed, smoothing his hand over the swell of her ass, and she fisted her hands in her hair as tension snapped through her shoulder, spine taut.
“You were nervous then, too.”
“Hurry up, Captain,” she ground out.
“So eager,” he returned, slipping long, devious fingers against the seam of her pants.
Every stroke was delicious agony. It shouldn’t have been possible for her to feel the sensations, more so with layers of fabric between his skin and hers.
She prayed with every fiber of her being that he didn’t feel that she was hot. Or worse yet, slick.
He crouched lower, running his hand teasingly over the backs and fronts of her thighs and calves, and into each boot, thorough and unhurried as her pulse thrummed through her body.
“Dismissed?”
He’d found nothing.
Of course.
He looked at her for a long moment. Every hair stood on end as she turned to face him.
“Dismissed.”
King Karsan brandished a clean painter’s brush against the damp paint on the canvas, diffusing the harsh edges around his subject.
His touch was delicate and gentle, smearing the paint lightly to create a glow reminiscent of candlelight.
The octagonal throne room hung heavy with the stench of fresh blood, hitting Ksenia like a hammer.
She fought the urge to cover her nose as she ventured inside.
Most potent of all was Radegast’s presence. It punched her in the gut like a physical force, the deep, thrumming resonance disturbing the pressure in her body. An overwhelming discordant note pressed against her eardrums with such intensity that her balance wavered.
“Ah, Sevrant. Welcome.” He dabbed his brush into the palette in his other hand, his eyes twinkling.
His subject was a freshly hunted black stag, its blood pooling on the floor from the wound in its rib, blending perfectly with its dark, glossy coat.
And freshly impaled upon its horns was an older servant dressed in a drab, gray tunic, his mouth gaped open in horror.
The pitter-patter of blood echoed in the room, pooling on the checkered marble floor.
Karsan probably selected him because he was convenient, expendable, and the right height to balance his composition.
“What do you think?” he asked, rapping the wooden tip of his brush against the canvas. “I call it ‘A Study in Loyalty.’”
Around him, the court was frozen, their faces white with shock. No one moved or spoke.
She swallowed, her jaw tight. A fine white cloth was discarded on the table next to Karsan, bright red blood still seeping through the threads.
She unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth, meeting his pale eyes. In his younger days, some would have called him handsome, in a hawkish way. But all Ksenia saw was the gaze of a tyrant whose veneer was cracking, unsure who he could trust.
“I’ve never seen a better example of combining education and art, Lord King.”
His eyes crinkled with delight.
“Lord King, I bring an update on the investigation.”
“Naturally.” Karsan stepped delicately away from the widening puddle of blood. “Valdren is the latest. Serafin before him. Each one was killed in locations where they should have been safe.”
He turned his cold, pale eyes to Ksenia. “Someone is dismantling my court, piece by piece. I could use some good news.”
“We’re still ruling out suspects.”
Karsan’s jaw ticked.
“I believe it’s someone with insider knowledge, someone who knows our rotations and vulnerabilities,” Ksenia continued.
“You mean, it’s someone I’ve let near me.” Karsan’s thumb traced Radegast’s hilt absentmindedly.
“Possibly. We haven’t ruled out anyone in your inner court.” Ksenia’s eyes drifted over the courtiers.
He was quiet for a long moment, studying her face intently.
“I dismissed half of my personal guard,” he said finally.
“Lord King, reducing your protection—”
He whipped Radegast out of its scabbard.
Courtiers screamed. Ksenia held her breath, the tide lines on the steel shaft close enough for her to count.
“It isn’t a reduction, more so a refinement.” His smile was wry. “Find this assassin soon. I sleep better when I know exactly where my enemies lie. Preferably dead, in the ground.”
“Absolutely, Lord King.” Her breath misted on the steel.
He lowered Radegast and picked up the stained cloth, rubbing at the blade’s surface.
His paranoia was spreading like the blood at his feet.
He was wavering at the precipice; all he needed was one last push.
Ksenia would have to move quickly.