Chapter 43
I expect to be brought down to the large dining hall that I went to when we first arrived at the castle, which seems like ages ago now. But instead, I’m led to the third floor and then into a pretty blue room.
It’s decorated with landscape paintings on the walls, every single one depicting the waves of a sea.
The floors are the color of beach sand, the furniture a foam of white.
The guard leaves and shuts the door behind him, and I look straight ahead at the wide-open double doors that lead to a beautiful outdoor balcony terrace.
Torches are lit along the entire length of the railing, casting the night air with the warmth of the flames.
A metal table spreads out with six chairs around it, though there’s only place settings for two.
There’s also a small fountain in the center of the terrace, where vines drip out from the top bowl, pouring down with the water before sweeping out like the train of a gown.
It burbles quietly, water and flame creating a quiet kind of song.
Piper is leaning with bent elbows on the balcony’s railing, his instrument glinting at his waist. Dark trousers cover his thick thighs, and his hair is combed but still hanging in loose waves around his nape. His back is broad and strong, and somehow, he’s found a tunic that fits him.
The sight of him brings heat to my face. I take a breath and look up at the sky, begging for a breeze.
The night is early, not a speck of pollution anywhere in sight, and the moon shines overhead. It’s like I’m looking at it through a layer of water, its own reflection rippling as streaks of light and shadow swim across it.
Like Henry said, it’s a veil moon tonight.
“I wonder if those really are spirits passing through to the afterlife,” I muse quietly.
A noise drags my gaze back down, and I see Piper has turned to face me.
His dark green tunic is fitted with a doublet vest the same black as his pants, and it’s his strength, his posture, his irrefutable confidence that makes him look like royalty.
Like the monarchs that used to rule Brekon.
His face is something that should be carved in marble.
Perfectly balanced with the roughness of his stubble and the slant of his brow to accompany the sculpted beauty throughout.
If he wasn’t a Govern, I bet he would’ve been a king.
And I’m in desperate danger of falling into his reigning pull.
Piper’s gaze moves from my floral bodice in a slow drag over my breasts, up to my exposed collarbone and shoulders, before landing on my face. Each stroke of attention, even the subtle one where his eyes move from my mouth to my eyes, I track. I see.
But more than that, I feel.
His focus is a corporeal thing. Solid. Tangible. I can feel it as well as if he’d reached out and touched me. But what catches my breath is the look of longing in his eyes.
It makes a deep longing come to life within me.
He comes closer, and I notice a frown digging into his expression. When he stops in front of me, his thumb comes up, and my breath freezes as he wipes away the powder that covered the freckle near my right eye, and then the one at the bridge of my nose too.
Only then does he drop his hand, now seemingly satisfied. The corner of his mouth tilts up.
“Hello, blight.”
A soft smile tugs at my lips. Somehow, that nickname has turned from a bitter bash to a sweet caress.
“Hello, Piper.”
He pauses, maybe to give me time to mend my breathlessness. But with the way he’s looking at me, I’m having trouble catching it.
“You’ve rewritten it,” he says quietly.
My brows draw in. “Rewritten what?”
“Beauty.”
His tone isn’t flowery or spun, but something irrefutable. Maybe that’s why my stomach twists so much—because it’s not spoken as flattery. To him, he’s just speaking truth.
“The definition will have to alter for you.”
A blush heats my cheeks. I don’t know what to say, so my fingers pinch nervously at my skirts. “It’s just the dress.”
He cocks his head, a smirk lazily growing. “You could be right. Take it off and let’s see.”
I sputter. “What? No!”
He smiles fully then, and it makes my mind stall.
This is what it means when people say someone is devastatingly handsome. Piper has viciously sharp beauty when he’s angry. Magnetic allure at every turn. But when he smiles? Absolutely devastating. It takes my breath away.
“You’re staring,” he teases, and I falter, because I definitely was.
I clear my throat. “You should smile more.”
He chuckles. “Maybe I would, if I didn’t have a fiend constantly trying to run away and taking a needle to all my good shirts.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing and glance down with obvious appreciation. “Seems you found some new ones.”
He hums low in his throat.
Turning, he gestures to the table. “Please, sit,” he tells me, before striding over and pulling out my chair for me.
I sit down even as my stomach tries to flutter away. There’s the barest stroke of his finger against my exposed shoulder when he pushes in my chair, and it makes me shiver all over. As soon as he’s pushed me in, he takes the seat directly across from me, while I try to get my nerves under control.
Instantly, a parade of servants comes in and wordlessly drops off platters of food.
And more platters of food.
And even more platters of food.
I look behind me, and—yep, they’re still coming.
Only once the entire table has been filled do they stop, but only to pour us multiple cups of wine . . . in nearly every color.
Red, pink, plum, orange, a bubbly blue . . .
I stare wide-eyed as the last cup is filled with water, and then they finally depart, leaving us alone on the terrace. I lean to the right so I can see over the piles. “Umm . . . why is there so much food?”
He shifts in his seat, finger yanking at the collar of his vest to pull it away from his neck. He clears his throat. “I wasn’t sure what you liked.”
Wait, is he . . . nervous?
I blink, looking at him in a new light. Him. The lord of lure, is actually nervous to dine with me?
It’s incredibly endearing, and it makes me feel as light as air. Like I could just float away.
“You do remember Hamelyn was Plagued for almost six months,” I point out, trying to put him at ease. “You could serve bread and butter and I’d be happy.”
“That’s somewhere on the table, I’m sure.”
A soft laugh comes out, surprising me, and apparently surprising him too. His gaze sharpens, like he wants to hook into my laughter and reel it in. “There’s those dimples again.”
My smile falls. A slow downward drag of my lips.
Dimples from my mother.
I miss her so much.
“What is it?”
I shove those thoughts away. Too complicated. Too vulnerable.
“Nothing,” I say, casting my focus across the table, shucking off the sadness and replacing my expression with curiosity.
“I don’t quite know where to start. How about you tell me what you like to eat best on this table, and I’ll try it?
And then, when we’re finished, and there are still platters of untouched food, will you let the servants or the other stolen have it instead of it all being tossed away?
It would be an enormous waste otherwise. ”
His brow cocks. “Do I seem like the type of man to be wasteful?”
“I don’t know, are you?”
He gets up from his seat, his slow, prowling movements curving around the table. It feels like each footstep is thumping with my pulse. Then he stops and leans down to pick up my plate, our faces just inches apart. “No, I’m not. I make sure me and mine are more than satisfied.”
Heat bursts in my chest.
He pulls away while I struggle to breathe, and I watch as he starts going up and down the table, filling my plate. But that satisfied sparkle in his eye tells me all I need to know. He’s flirting with me, and I’m enjoying every second of it.
And based on his expression, he’s enjoying every second of it too.
Theo never said the kinds of things Piper says, not in all the two years we were together.
And he certainly didn’t kiss me like Piper did.
We never really argued or verbally sparred either.
Never had that urge for the thrilling push and pull.
We just didn’t have that spark like the one that always seems to bloom between Piper and me. It’s become addicting.
I clear my throat, trying to swallow past the dryness gathered on my tongue. “What if I don’t like anything that you pick?” I ask.
His smirk is sinful. “Then I’m sure I can find something else your mouth will enjoy.”
Breath whooshes out of me.
“You . . . can’t keep speaking like that!” I exclaim, ready to fan my face.
He doesn’t even pause as he plops a pile of . . . something onto my plate. “Yes, I can.”
“Well, you can. But should you?”
“Only if you want me to.”
I let out a dubious laugh. “And you’d actually stop? If I told you to?”
Another heap onto the plate, along with a heap of an answer. “Yes.”
He answers so bluntly that I believe him. If I told him to stop, if I truly didn’t want this to continue, I can tell by his tone that he would respect that. Right now, I could end this, but I don’t.
Because I don’t want it to end.
Whatever this is between us, giving in to the pull is a bit like rolling down a sun-kissed hillside. A rush of excitement with full-body warmth.
Since the desert, a veil has thinned between us, just as it has for those spirits rippling across the moon. And instead of turning away, I find I want to bask in it.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks quietly.
My breath trembles with my answer, but it comes out in truth. “No.”