Chapter Eleven #4
“Oh, Einar. Do you think I have been so unaware of you, these centuries? That I do not know your heart?” She moved her hand to his chest, pressing it to the spot where his heart beat unsteadily.
“I feel the truth of you every time you touch the sea. You care more fiercely than anyone knows. Perhaps you have even fooled yourself. But I know you. You are dangerous, yes. But you are loyal, and you are passionate, and you fight for the people you love. You came to this place of personal tragedy without a second thought, simply to see them safe.”
It was as if she’d tossed a stone into water, fracturing his reflection into a thousand ripples.
When the picture he held of himself reformed, it looked different.
All his rough edges smoothed into strength, his obsession transmuted into passion, even the Kraken’s overprotectiveness gentled into loyalty.
It was the reflection of a man who deserved Aleksi and Naia, seen through the eyes of an ancient god who loved all three of them.
He wasn’t sure he could reply without his voice cracking.
Dianthe smiled in gentle understanding. “Besides, Naia is no longer the young water nymph who appeared to us from the waves. She was ancient when I first touched the sea. I have no doubts she can handle you, even at your most aggravating.”
He was grateful for the chance to laugh, even if it came out rough. “Me? Aggravating?”
She gave his chest a fond pat. “Beyond all reason, at times. But I would never ask you to change. You are brash and you are irreverent, and you follow no rules but your own. If that makes people like the nobles of Gwynira’s court nervous .
. .” Her sudden smile held a dangerous edge.
“Well, it is good for them to remember that the ocean and her creatures are not to be disrespected.”
No, they were not. Einar clasped Dianthe’s hand and bowed over it. “You honor me with your trust, Siren.”
“I honor you with nothing more than you have earned.” She tugged him back upright and leaned closer. “And as much as I’m enjoying your company, I think someone else has a more pressing claim.”
He followed her gaze to where Zanya and Sachi stood with Naia. They were whispering about something, but Naia . . . Naia was watching him, luminous eyes alight with affection and longing.
Dianthe’s warm laughter swirled around him, like a soft wind rustling at his hair and nudging at his back. “Go.”
He didn’t have much choice, with the wind playfully prodding him forward—but he didn’t fight it. Not when it was guiding him in the exact direction he most wanted to go.
He reached where Naia stood with Sachi and flashed his most rakish smile. “I hate to interrupt, Princess . . . but this next dance is mine.”
“I suppose your claim on Naia’s time is stronger than mine.” Sachi’s deep curtsy almost hid her teasing smile. “Captain.”
The look in Naia’s eyes could have lured sailors to their deaths. Einar had no defense against it as she slipped her hand into his, the mere glide of her fingers against his a sweetness he could drown in.
As he led her out into the dancing, the musicians transitioned to something slower, a single clear flute winding hauntingly around the low thrum of the stringed instruments.
A song of seduction, with the top melody luring you in as the soft drumbeat rose beneath it in an unmistakably charged rhythm.
Einar didn’t worry about the steps this time. Not when he could follow that drumbeat. He twined the fingers of one hand with hers and settled the other on her hip, tugging her close as they began to sway. “Do you recognize this song?”
“I do.” She lifted their hands and spun beneath them, her skirts flaring. “Most of what they have played tonight has been traditional Rahvekyan folk music.”
Undoubtedly to honor Naia. At Gwynira’s last ball, many of the servants and villagers had suspected and hoped, but now they knew. “I like it much better than the Imperial music.”
She smiled a little wistfully. “Perhaps it is . . . familiar to you.”
“It probably is.” He twirled her again, because he liked the way she laughed breathlessly as she spun, but letting her go for even those scant moments was almost intolerable.
He enjoyed it much more when he tugged her back against him, far too close for the polite confines of a dance.
He didn’t care—he liked how her body fit against his.
“Petya doesn’t sing much, but Jinevra has a flute. She used to play it on night watches.”
Her smile faltered for just a moment before returning, and he cursed himself. It must be hard for her to think about all the things that had happened to her people and the island after her death. She had saved them all, but their lives had been hard.
No. Tonight wasn’t a night for grieving the past or for worrying about the future. They had given enough of themselves to diplomacy and wars and the weight of history. He would steal tonight just for them.
Naia’s dress was cut so low in the back that he didn’t have to slide his hand up far before his fingertips found soft skin.
He stroked the line of her spine as they followed the swirling path of the flute and the primal beat of the drum.
She turned her face into his throat, her breath turning unsteady as he splayed his hand wide and pulled her even closer.
Their next slow turn brought Aleksi into view. There was an Imperial noble talking animatedly at him, and the Lover’s expression held nothing but polite interest. But his gaze followed Einar and Naia, the banked heat smoldering there both promise and warning.
Einar lowered his lips to Naia’s ear. “Look.”
She lifted her head, her gaze dreamy and distant. But when she saw Aleksi, a bright smile lit her face. “Do you think he would like to dance with us?”
“I certainly hope so,” Einar responded, lips brushing her temple. “How shall we lure him into our net?”
“Well . . .” She tilted her head. “We could always play coy. Dance over until we’re a little closer and just . . . wait. Or we could be more proactive.”
Proactive sounded wonderful. “Do you have a wicked plan in mind?”
“Perhaps I do.” Her full lips curved into the wickedest smile he had ever seen, and she tugged away from him. Before he could mourn the loss of her body against his, she pressed her back to his chest, the lush curves of her ass grinding back against his suddenly painfully interested cock.
The drums grew stronger, their rhythm more explicit. Naia moved with it, rocking back as if she was riding him already, every movement languid. Across the room, the noble talking to Aleksi had fallen silent. Most of the room followed suit.
There was only the music, and Naia, primal and shameless, one hand tangling slowly in her skirts as Aleksi followed her every movement with parted lips.
Her skirt came up, revealing her ankle.
Aleksi stepped forward.
Naia smiled.
The skirts drifted higher. Her calf. Her knee. The drums pounded in Einar’s ears as he gripped her hips, as deeply under her spell as Aleksi was as he approached them in a slow, gliding stalk. His eyes burned—not embers of fire, but the rare violet of his power as it thrummed between them.
Stunningly graceful. Deadly serious.
Einar hoped everyone in this damn court was gnawing on their own livers in envy that this ethereal goddess and this glorious god—both radiating sensuality and power—were his.
Aleksi stopped in front of them. Two elegant fingers touched Naia’s chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. He said nothing.
Naia’s laughing sigh was pure affection. “What took you so long?”
He moved his hand slowly, trailing his fingers through her loose hair and higher, to brush Einar’s lips. “I was admiring the view.”
Einar closed his teeth on Aleksi’s fingers before soothing the bite with his tongue. “So were we.”
Naia caught the edge of Aleksi’s velvet vest and pulled him closer in wordless demand. He gave in, wrapping one arm around her waist. The hand that lingered on Einar’s jaw slipped around to grip the back of his neck.
Trapped between them, Naia exhaled on a sigh of satisfaction and let her head fall back against Einar’s shoulder.
He was about to touch the soft skin of her throat when the candles flared on every chandelier, drawing gasps from the crowd as the room went painfully bright for a moment and then extinguished, one by one, starting in the center and rushing out, snuffing faster and faster until only the torches on either far wall burned.
It should have plunged the ballroom into mostly darkness, but instead—
Butterflies swarmed the ballroom, glowing in wild colors as they fluttered over the crowd.
Pinks and teals, silvers and blues, the lightest violet and the most startling green—all the colors of the Witchwood dipping and twirling as their wings shifted in time with the music, as if they had become part of it.
Naia looked up with a gasp, her lips parted in wonder. Aleksi smiled and nuzzled her cheek. Past his shoulder, Einar caught sight of Inga standing on the edge of the crowd with Ash.
The Lord of Fire. So that was what had happened to the candles.
Inga winked at him before lifting one hand, flipping her fingers in a lazy gesture. Fireflies appeared amongst the butterflies, blinking above them like a thousand stars.
“A little of the Witchwood,” Naia breathed, “here in Rahvekya.”
She said the name of the island differently than Petya always had, the subtle emphasis just slightly different, as if shaped by the language that came before. Few people knew the language anymore beyond a few prayers and ancient songs. Just the priestesses.
And now, Naia.