Seravyn
It’s been seven days since the river.
Seven days of glances across the great hall, across the garden room, across the breakfast table on the rare mornings Aldric makes his appearance.
Seven days of Ren bowing too low and rising too slowly, of his eyes finding mine and then deliberately looking away.
Seven days of my own heart betraying me, beating too fast when he enters a room, all but stopping when he doesn’t.
Of my body being wound too tight, hands lifting my teacup just to give them a purpose, smoothing a fold of my skirt that doesn’t exist because if I don’t, I might reach for him.
Seven days, and we haven’t said a single word to acknowledge what happened between us at the river.
I know I saw in the reeds. I wasn’t a shadow, or some trick of the moonlight.
And there’s a part of me—wild, reckless, hungry—that wants him to know that I saw him there, leaned against a tree, stroking himself, and it set me on fire.
That my body called to his across that river like the tide to the moon, every rock of his hips tethered to my pleasure.
It’s the wanting. To want and to be wanted. In such a destructive, uncontrollable way, that the only option is to lose oneself to the maddening need of it no matter the consequence.
I want to know that Ren wants me in this way.
Yet there’s another part of me that hopes he can’t possibly know. Because what good would come of it?
It was one moment—just one moment carved into the dark, that neither of us needs to speak on.
The silence is so much louder anyway.
Much like the palace today, that teems with courtiers and servants, like a beehive that’s been kicked.
Aldric rides out at dawn four days a week now.
Banners snapping, his retinue laden with guards and advisors.
The eastern provinces have moved past rumors.
There’s a name attached to the revolt now: Lord Bramwich of the iron holdings, whose mines border Kravenholt’s.
Aldric drags his war council to the border on these days, returning by sundown with darker moods and a shorter temper.
I’ve succeeded in avoiding the king since his unwelcome intrusion into my bedchamber. And it would be a relief that he’s gone so often, except for the impending wedding that haunts me around every bustling corner of the palace.
Three weeks has bled into two, and the entire court has chosen to focus on the celebrations over any chance of war. The Lord of Misrule festival falls a week before the wedding ceremony, and Aldric has decreed it’s to be the most extravagant ever celebrated.
There are dressmakers and pastry chefs. Minstrels are soon to arrive from a kingdom over. There are crates being hauled through corridors, and footmen running with lists, and chambermaids polishing every mirror.
Right this moment, I’m being dragged through the bedlam by Isolde, who walks ahead of me through the long gallery, a slate clutched against her chest that outlines the day’s obligations as we hurry toward another dress fitting.
Right after, the tasting of the wedding cakes.
Then a consultation with the chamberlain about the seating of the Threnmere delegation.
There’s also the selection of the floral arrangements.
Aldric has specifically requested crimson, all crimson, which has thrown the florist into a panic.
I’m nodding with Isolde as she tells me all this—
Until I see him.
Ren is leaning against the wall of the gallery, just outside the arched entry to the lesser hall. He has his head tipped back against the stone, his eyes closed, the jester’s hat dangling from one hand at his side.
He looks wrecked.
The chaos moves around him, and he remains still against the wall in his motley.
Something inside my chest twists.
“Isolde.” I touch her arm to halt her.
She glances back, eyes widened in question. “What is it?”
“I’ve forgotten something in my chambers,” I say low, so the hovering courtiers don’t hear. “I’ll only be a moment.”
She eyes me suspiciously. But when I touch my belly, twisting my face into a grimace, she nods quickly. “Of course, Your Highness.”
I give her a grateful smile. “I’ll meet you at the fitting later.”
She waves the slate dismissively. “I’ll stall them. Take your time.”
I nod once, offering another smile, then peel away from the cluster of courtiers. Waiting a few beats before I change course and make my way toward the end of the gallery.
Ren doesn’t notice me until I’m standing in front of him. Then his dour expression shifts, transforming his face with that slanted, heartrending grin of his, dimples popping.
“Princess,” he acknowledges me with a slow head bow, his pale and dark eyes never leaving mine. His voice is rougher than usual.
“Jester,” I greet in return. “You look ill today. Everything all right?”
He huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I apologize for looking less than appealing to Your Highness.”
My mouth thins, and I pull my shoulders back, forcing him with a severe look to give me a proper answer.
Ren sighs. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m just catching my breath. It’s—” He glances around the gallery at the bustling bodies. “It’s rather busy lately.”
I watch a small, tired smile frame his mouth. “Yes. I noticed you’ve been avoiding the bedlam.”
He tilts his head, his smile stretching deviously, making my stomach flutter. “You’ve been watching me, Sera?”
The insinuation flushes my skin with a rush of heat. Then I notice the hollows beneath his eyes. The faint tightness around his mouth. The scar through his eye looks paler today.
“Have you not been getting proper sleep?” I ask.
He looks away. “I sleep enough.”
“Liar.”
His eyes meet mine, another knowing smile twisting his mouth. “A practiced one. Comes with the costume.”
I glance back down the gallery, my thoughts churning. “Come with me,” I say.
I don’t give him the chance to argue as I start walking down the corridor at a fast pace. He pushes off the wall, following behind at a safe distance, and the corner of my mouth lifts.
The neglected wing is in the north of the palace. It used to be the dowager queen’s wing, Aldric’s mother’s, before she died. He had it sealed when he took the throne, and no one is permitted to go there.
I walk fast, my pulse quickening at the sound of his footfalls following behind me. As we reach the tapestry, I push it aside, ducking through into the dim staircase.
The moment the tapestry falls back into place, the world goes quiet.
The roar of the palace cuts off. The clatter of feet and voices—all of it muffled, fading into silence. The staircase smells of stone and dust. Our breathing is suddenly loud.
Ren exhales. I hear it as much as feel it. “What are we doing here?” he asks.
I continue on. “I thought you could use a reprieve.”
At the top of the stairs, I push open the heavy door, and the library opens before us like a held breath. Four walls of books. A single tall window admitting a column of pale light. A faded chaise. The smell of old leather and even older books.
Ren pauses in the doorway for a moment to take it all in.
I recall he can’t read, or at least read well, and I hope bringing him here doesn’t upset him.
I try to think of something to say to ease the furrow carving between his brow.
“I actually don’t do much reading in here,” I say as I move toward the chaise.
“I just come here when I want to be alone, to catch my breath.”
He moves to stand opposite me, looking unflinchingly at me rather than the books. “You have to catch your breath often.”
It’s a question, one that makes the flush return to my face. Which is starting to irritate me. As a daughter of the Thorn Court, I’ve never once felt so rattled. Our women are raised to be bold, empowered by our bodies and sex, not overawed or hesitant in the presence of a male.
But Renick Ashbourne seems to have this ability to make me forget myself. The image I have of him in the shadows surfaces once again, his eyes watching me—the same way he’s watched me, has looked at me, since he first strode into the throne room.
When I fail to answer, he smirks and runs a hand through his messy hair. He’s forgotten his jester hat, and I’m glad for it. I love to watch his hair flop into disarray every time he tries to tame it.
“I thank you, Princess,” he says, leaning back on a shelf and crossing his arms. “It’s been a while since I’ve been somewhere quiet.”
I nod. “Stay as long as you want, then.” I turn to go.
“Wait—” The sharpness of his voice stops me. “You won’t stay.”
Another question. This one dangerous in its own right.
I think of Isolde, of the fitting, of the chamberlain’s seating chart and the crimson flowers. Aldric’s eyes heating on my face, his hand touching me, and how powerless I felt in that moment, and I say, “Maybe for a little while.”
A faint, satisfied smile tips his mouth. “I’ll take what I can get.”
I swallow hard at that, forcing my gaze to the high wall of books.
“There is one book I’ve been eyeing,” I say, crossing to the book ladder braced against the bookcase.
“It’s a volume of poetry, from Threnmere.
I was surprised to find it here actually.
” I roll the ladder over and brace my slippered foot on the lower rung, feeling unsteady with Ren’s eyes on me.
Of course, the book sits on the highest shelf.
Goddess incarnate, I nearly groan as I lift my skirts to climb.
Ren rushes to the ladder. “Let me—”
“Nonsense,” I scold. “I’m perfectly capable.”
He holds up a hand. “I’d never suggest otherwise, Your Highness.”
I look up at the four rungs, then start to climb. The dust dances around me. I find the book by feel, my fingertips reaching, searching the spines.
“So no one ever comes here,” Ren says, distracting me.
I keep my balance, tucking the book beneath my arm. “Not that I’ve seen.” I start to descend and, on the way down, my heel catches the hem of my gown.
The ladder wobbles.