Seravyn
Wolfsbane blooms for death.
My mother taught me this when I was seven, her fingers guiding mine along the deep violet petals in Threnmere’s moonlit garden.
Every plant speaks, she said. Every root, every petal, every thorn carries a message.
Nightshade whispers sleep. Belladonna sings beauty into the blood until the heart neglects to beat. Wolfsbane is patient, a slow unmaking.
For this, wolfsbane is queen.
The poison inside those elegant spires is the most patient killer the earth has ever sown.
It seizes the heart and squeezes, disrupting its rhythm until the chambers stutter and stop.
A few drops of its tincture can kill in a matter of hours.
A single root, improperly handled, can poison through the skin.
My mother called it the crown jewel of Threnmere’s inheritance.
And the women of my bloodline have been drinking it for generations.
Mithridatism is the practice of building tolerance through tiny, increasing doses over years, training the body to carry what would otherwise kill you.
My grandmother drank wolfsbane tea every morning like other women drink chamomile. My mother put drops of the tincture in my milk when I was still small enough to sit in her lap, building the immunity into my blood before I was old enough to understand why.
I am the princess of poisons, raised by its queens, carrying enough lethality in my bloodstream to kill a wretched king.
Standing in the pool of moonlight, I crouch near the short row of plants and cut a stem, coming away with a single purple, hooded bloom. Even here, in this foreign land, I have to continue the nightly ritual to keep my immunity built to the toxins.
I’ve just placed the bloom in my cloak pocket and turn to leave the garden, when a sound draws me around. My heart vaults to my throat at the sight of Ren.
He’s wearing a plain black tunic, his hair disheveled without his jester’s cap to tame it, and the scar cutting through his eye catches the silvery moonlight in a way that makes him look like a cautionary tale.
He tilts his head, assessing me. “It’s rather late for princesses to be roaming the garden,” he says, his voice cast low.
Feeling less startled that it’s him and not one of the guards, I physically relax my stiff posture. “I could say the same for jesters.”
His mouth twitches at the corner. “Fair enough,” he says, crossing toward me. “But I’d feel responsible should anything happen to you out here, so let me escort—”
The words have barely left his mouth before I’m grabbing his arm and tugging him down with me. Face just inches from his, I push my finger against my lips, urging him to be quiet.
“Norene, come help with this bucket,” one of the servants calls out. I peek through the row of plants, watching as she empties a bucket of sudsy water. The garden is small, a walled courtyard, enclosed on three sides by pale stone. “Aye, never mind you. I’ve done it already.”
Slinging the bucket at her side, she enters through the side door, leaving us alone in the silent garden once more. And I become hyperaware of the rushed sound of my breaths—and Ren’s heavy gaze on my lips.
He swallows, slowly dragging his eyes up to meet mine as my finger lowers. “I take it being found out here at night wouldn’t be a good thing,” he says.
I unclench my fingers from the fabric of his tunic sleeve. His presence so near is a physical thing. All heat and breath and thrumming nerves. I push back some, clearing strands of hair from my face.
“You’d be correct in your assumption,” I say warily, uncertain of what he’ll do with this information.
Ren licks his lips, a slow smile tugging at the corner as he watches me, and the air changes. Warmer, denser, headier with his scent—some spice beneath the soap on his skin, earthy and male and entirely too present.
He remains crouched beside me, far too close. His knee nearly touches mine. He cocks his head. “What are you doing out here, Princess?”
“Brash of you to ask, Jest,” I snap.
His smile stretches. “Just curious.”
This man has no fear in his eyes. It’s what I noticed the first moment I saw him in the throne room. And seemingly, he has no fear of me—something that makes my heart knock hard in my chest.
“I tend to my plants at night,” I say, all that I’m willing to give him.
“You planted these,” he says, a question buried in his deep tone, as he reaches toward the wolfsbane.
I catch his wrist. The sudden contact—skin to skin—jolts through me.
His darkened eyes track the wolfsbane’s violet hoods before descending to where my fingers clasp his wrist.
“Don’t touch it,” I murmur the warning. “Just brushing the petals with bare hands can slow your heart.”
He doesn’t pull away from my grip. His eyes—that one dark, the other pale—are on my fingers where we touch, and when he lifts his gaze slowly to mine, there’s something heated in it that makes my stomach tighten.
“But you tend it,” he says questioningly, “with bare hands.”
The deep purple flowers look black in this light, like bruised silk. “I helped tend my mother’s garden in the Vassal keep,” I tell him honestly. “I grew accustomed very young.”
His gaze absorbs me, a silent demand for more.
I lift my chin. “The soil there is perfect for this species, damp, acidic. Not like here. Plants like these don’t thrive in Kravenholt’s ground.”
My legacy. My inheritance. The knowledge of our goddesses, rooted in foreign soil and flowering in spite.
He simply watches me, patiently waiting.
“I had to bring the soil with me, and night gardening ensures the roots of moon-loving blooms take here.” I pause, needing a breath.
“And it’s just…that I don’t want to be bothered.
This is something all mine, something that makes me feel like I’m back home.
I like to do it alone.” I hold his unwavering gaze.
“And I don’t want to ask permission to do so. ”
Remembering myself, I release his wrist, slowly letting my fingers trail across his skin. Wanting to imprint the memory of him before letting go.
“So,” I continue, arching an accusatory eyebrow. “Now that you know my secret. Tell me, Ren, what brings you out here in the middle of the night? Unless you want me to assume you’re up to no good, that is.”
The air between us grows so thick I can feel it on my skin, heavy with the scent of wolfsbane and the unbearable awareness of how little space separates us.
The edge of his mouth slants, his expression dangerously attractive. Then he reaches into the pocket of his tunic and pulls out a bundle. He unfolds the cloth, revealing a handful of mint leaves and a carved square of sugarcane.
“I fear my secret is rather dull compared to yours.” His voice is low, lazy with amusement. “I like to crush the leaves and sugar in hot water before bed. Helps me sleep. Doesn’t do the trick to knock me out like a bottle of whiskey but…” He shrugs. “It mostly works.”
His honesty lands tender in my chest, and I have to glance away to steady myself. “I see,” I murmur.
“Well, I can do better than show you, Princess.” He pinches grains of sugar between his thumb and forefinger, and his eyes lift to mine, glittering darker than the sugar itself. “Some things have to be experienced.”
Before I respond, he’s moving his hand, waiting for me to extend mine in acceptance. And I don’t know what makes me do it. My nerves, the brazenness of being secluded in the dark, Nythera’s influence—
But instead of giving him my hand, I part my lips, opening my mouth to him.
The way his pupils blow wide at the sight quickens my pulse.
Ren leans closer. The space between us narrows to the width of a held breath. His thumb hovers just above my lower lip, the grains of sugar pinched between his fingertips, and I can feel his breath on my mouth—warm, ragged, controlled with the effort not to breathe too deeply.
As he places the sugar on my tongue, his thumb grazes the inside of my lower lip. He withdraws, and my tongue follows, the barest flick, to catch the pad of his thumb. His hand stills, his thumb resting against my mouth for one heartbeat too long, and his dark eye goes almost black.
When he finally starts to withdraw, my lips close around his finger, tasting sugar and salt and rough skin.
The sound he makes is small and involuntary, something between a grunt and a surrender of breath, torn from his throat. The way it falls out of him is wrecked, and I feel it everywhere. In my spine, my chest—the deep, unfamiliar ache that blooms low in my belly, refusing to be ignored.
My heartbeat is a roar in my head. His breathing is ragged, his jaw locked hard.
I let the sugar dissolve on my tongue before licking my lips. “You were right,” I whisper. “Better to be experienced.”
His throat works on a forced swallow. He drags a hand down his face. “Gods, woman,” he mutters so low, right into his hand.
He stares right into my eyes as he brings that same thumb to his own mouth, tastes it—tastes me.
Morrishan, have mercy. The sight of it undoes something low in my belly, and I have to press my thighs together against the sudden, traitorous ache.
He then scrapes his fingers through his hair, as if trying to physically scrape his thoughts free. He shifts back slightly, putting an inch of merciful space between us.
And I’m transfixed, intoxicated at the sight of watching this dangerous man rein himself in, knowing that I’ve unmade him with one flick of my tongue.
“We should go in,” I say, my senses finally returning. I gather myself and stand. Smooth my skirts with deliberate movements. The single bloom of wolfsbane in my pocket is a mental anchor, reminding me of who I am, what I carry.
My task.
Yet Ren hasn’t moved. I look down at him crouched between the rows of plants. “Are you coming?”
“Give me a moment, Princess,” he says, his voice rough.
His eyes drop, just briefly—a flick downward. And suddenly, with a flush of heat through my skin, I understand why he can’t yet stand. What he’s trying to hide behind the angle of his body.
Nythera’s veil, I mentally swear.
He drags a hand down his face. Lets out a sound that is half laugh, half groan, utterly undone.
I press my lips together to prevent a smile.
He clears his throat. “Tell me something,” Ren says, graciously distracting my thoughts. “Are there other places you like to sneak off during the night?”
Now this feels entirely too dangerous.
His eyes lift, attentive. Daring.
I push my hand into my cloak pocket, feeling the wolfsbane there.
“There’s a river,” I say. “Just past the eastern wall, through the orchard. The palace grounds end at its bank. The water is cool, streaming down from the mountains. And on nights with a full moon, it catches the light like…” I trail off, searching for words to describe it. “Like poured silver.”
His gaze is absorbed on me. “It sounds beautiful.”
“It is. I like to swim there.” My voice softens, almost in spite of myself.
He doesn’t speak. Just watches me, and the weight of his attention is its own kind of touch.
I glance up at the waxing gibbous moon, avoiding his too heavy gaze.
When I dare another look at him, his gaze is still on me. His throat works, and he says, “I’d like to see that sometime.”
I take a step back, then another, the wolfsbane heavy in my pocket and the taste of him still clinging to my tongue. “Take all the time you need, Ren. Goodnight.”
Behind me, I hear him exhale, and it stirs something ruinous inside me.
By the time I reach my chambers, I’m unsure of what just transpired between us. Of my own brash actions. I pull the bloom from my cloak pocket, wondering if Ren is still in the garden right now. Wondering what would’ve happened if I hadn’t left.
I’m unsure—honestly—of so many things.
I quickly make my nightly drink laced with wolfsbane and lift it to my lips, taking a sip of the poison I’ve spent my whole life building a tolerance to survive.
And I can still taste my first sip of him on my tongue.
The slow, sweet burn of him already in my blood, fused with the cold certainty that he may be the one thing I’m unable to build a tolerance against.