Seravyn #2
If I don’t find a way to mollify Aldric and his mercurial nature, this night of folly very well could end in bloodshed. Kings have cut down men for far lesser offenses than garnering the attention of the woman they want to possess.
Aldric circles Ren slowly, the metal of his cape catching the torchlight. He has stripped off his crimson mantle and tossed it across Ren’s lap. He snatches the small jester’s hat from Prineus, placing it crooked atop his head.
“Behold,” Aldric shouts. “Your humble fool.”
The court roars.
Aldric stops in front of Ren and bows low, sweeping his arm in faux deference.
“How may I serve my new king tonight? A jest? A song?” He straightens, his grin sharp.
“Ah, of course.” He turns to the hall. “A dance. What is a court without dancing? And what is a coronation without a dance for the king’s new queen? ”
The court cheers, encouraging their king on as Aldric strides to me before I understand what’s even happening. His hand closes around my wrist, rough fingers banding tight, and he hauls me up out of the chair and into his arms.
“My Lord—” My protest is cut short.
“Smile for me, love,” Aldric whispers harshly into my hair. “Your foolish king is watching.”
My stomach dips, pitted out with dread. I force my lips into a fake smile, and when Aldric pulls back a measure, his face looking down into mine, his mouth twists in disapproval.
The court parts for us. The minstrels strike up a song too fast for a proper court dance, a tune coarse and pounding. Aldric pulls me closer, the press of his toned chest hard against mine. One hand settles at the small of my back, the other splays possessively across my hip, and he begins to move—
Obscenely.
His leg presses between my thighs through the slit of the crimson skirt. His hand at my hip slides lower, over the curve, and grips. He spins me and pulls my back against his chest, his arm banding across my collarbone, and his mouth drops to my ear.
“You’re going to dance for him, Seravyn,” he murmurs in a grating tone, and my gaze snaps to Ren, to his clenched jaw and narrowed, darkened eyes.
“You’re going to dance for your jester the way Threnmere women dance, hm?
The way I hear they worship their dark goddess in your little temples with your little gyrating hips and your little bare feet on the altar.
” He twirls me to face him. “Show him. Show us all the way you worship.”
“Aldric, please—”
His hand collars my throat loosely. “Give me a true smile, Seravyn.”
“No,” I seethe, refusing him even as his ringed fingers tighten just enough to limit my next breath. Even with the entire court watching, I hold my chin high, not giving him the slightest lift of my mouth.
Aldric sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, his heated gaze absorbing me. “My, what fire our queen wields. So hot… Oh, to be burned by your touch, Princess, a fool could dream.”
He spins me away before bringing me close, his hand finding my hip again, fingers spread wide. He laughs into the crook of my neck, loud enough for the front rows to hear.
“My friends,” he calls over my shoulder, never taking his hand off me, never stopping the cruel, slow grind of his thigh between my legs.
I can’t see Ren from this angle, but I can feel his gaze hard on me.
“Did you know, that the women of Threnmere worship a goddess of appetite? Yes, they’re taught to indulge.
And I’m told, on good authority, that the daughters of the Thorn Court will fuck a man beneath the moonlight, out in the wild—fuck a man so good he howls at the moon. ”
The court howls in mock calls.
I can feel my pulse in my teeth, rage simmering beneath my skin.
“Of course, of course, our princess is the great exception.” Aldric spins me once more, hand sliding from my hip up the length of my ribs, his knuckles dragging over the side of my breast through the silk. “Pure as snow. Sealed as a wine cask. Aren’t you, love?”
I say nothing.
His grip tightens at my waist, his words gritted through his teeth. “Aren’t you, Seravyn.”
I swallow. “Yes, My Lord.”
His smile is cruel. “There’s my good girl.”
He spins me once more, and I catch Ren’s gaze—from where he’s risen from his seat. Now standing, the crown crooked on his head, his eyes blazing with malice.
I do my best to shake my head, to warn him. No, do nothing. He can’t react, he can’t show the court—the king—any display of anger over my treatment.
Ren’s eyes fix onto Aldric as the king’s hand roams my ribs. Ren remains so still, carrying an empty, patient calm, like a wolf before it lunges.
Aldric pulls me back into him. His breath is hot against my ear.
“I want you to remember this dance, my bride,” he whispers.
“Because, come our wedding night, you will need one memory of me treating you softly to cling to—” the backs of his knuckles graze my jawline “—to compare my touch to. As on that night, I will lay a claim to your body that you will feel for weeks to come.”
He nips my earlobe, biting just hard enough to cause slight pain, before he releases me with a flourish.
The court roars. The minstrels crash to the end of their tune. Aldric sweeps into a deep, theatrical bow. He then turns and bows to the mock king, sending him a wink. “I pray you enjoyed your performance, mock king.”
Ren is seated once again, his jaw working. He summons the effort needed to form a lazy smile, offering the king a nod of approval. “I am pleased, Your Highness.”
Aldric turns his back to the jester, having made his point, then gives his attention to the puppet stage being wheeled out across the hall. “And now,” he booms. “Folly for our Lord of Misrule. Let the play begin.”
The torches along the walls hiss out one by one, setting the dark stage for the production. The great hall plunges into smoke and dim light, lit only by the guttering candles at the high table.
The court turns its attention toward the makeshift stage, the dance of humiliation quickly forgotten.
Aldric leaves me, alone and shaken, standing amid the migrating crowd, feeling the press of Ren’s gaze searching me. I wrap my arms around my waist, hesitating a beat before I finally lift my eyes to meet his.
And the pure violence I’m met with steals my breath.
Neither of us moves, silently watching the other as the hall erupts into boisterous laughter as the play begins.
A drunken lord passes in front of the dais, swaying, stumbling over his own feet. A goblet tips from his hand and shatters on the stone steps. Glass scatters across the floor.
The lord laughs it off and staggers on toward the puppet stage.
Ren’s furious gaze is no longer on me.
He’s looking down at the glass.
Rising from the mock throne, Ren steps over the broken glass, bending swiftly, the motion masked by the dark and smoke. He palms a large, jagged shard, closing his hand around the glass to conceal it.
And I know with a sudden, sickening certainty what he intends to do.
The realization hits me with a wild stab of dread. As I watch Ren creep toward the back of the crowd, I know what’s about to happen—right in front of the entire court.
And he will die for it. Ren will be cut down by Aldric’s guards before the king can even take his last breath.
I don’t think; I move.
The court is focused on the play, giving me the time needed to cross to Ren, to intercept him before he reaches Aldric’s back.
I grab his arm, and it takes everything in me not to let him pull away. I cling to him, lacing our fingers together, finally diverting his attention enough from his plan to drag him out of the crowded hall.
Not allowing him to question me, I lead him around the corner and into a darkened alcove. The shadows swallow us, yet I can still see the fury brimming there in him, what he means to do the second he leaves this corner if I can’t sway him.
I press his back against the wall and grab the front of his motley, rising onto my toes.
“Sera, what are you—”
My lips crash against his.