CHAPTER FORTY-NINE #2
The scar across my chest remained covered. The wound had healed to a raised line, the angry red faded now into muted pink. In a few more days it would blend, if I allowed it.
I had the power to erase it entirely. To close it like it had never happened. I could; I’d debated it. But the pull to smooth it away never came. Not the way it always did for Callum or for Elva. Mine were...mine. They never bothered me. If anything, they kept me humble.
My fingertips brushed the rough line, and something kindled, a purr beneath my skin, like the scar itself carried memory in its fibers. Even unfond ones.
The bottom half of the ensemble clung with the same decadence, falling loose around my hips before streaming straight to the floor. Slits climbed scandalously high on either side, stopping at the bare edge of my upper thighs.
No wonder it hadn’t taken long to make. There was hardly any fabric involved.
I’d noticed other women in the palace draped in similar styles as we passed the corridors earlier, even Aelora. Gods, especially Aelora. If she managed to keep her damn nipples covered at dinner tonight, it would be a miracle.
Perhaps then, if she hadn’t also been swathed across Ronan like he belonged to her, I might have been tempted to compliment her. The outfit, the body she so ruthlessly flaunted.
But, alas, I was petty.
Sylen had nearly scalped me trying to tame my hair before sighing and declaring it best left down and natural.
“The curls are elegant,” she said, like it was fact rather than opinion.
Then her palm shifted, and three small roses bloomed red and tight in her hand. She reached for me, intent on weaving them into my waves until I had grimaced.
Still, the thought lingered, beauty as the weapon.
The doors to the great hall sighed open, the room growing wide and dark, challenging me to enter. Torchlight licked the vaulted ceiling, gilding the faces that watched me from shadow.
At the far end there was a long table crouched under a constellation of candles where plates gleamed, goblets nearly polished to mirrors, the air sitting thick with spice and something iron-deep that pressed at the back of my throat.
I stepped through the doorway, only tightening the breathless air waiting for me inside.
My hands went clammy at my sides, breath coming too loud in my ears.
Every eye followed the slow, careful drum of my steps.
It should have felt like walking into a trap.
It did not. It felt like walking into a verdict.
Then I felt him. Heard him.
Do not pretend that you are meek or fragile, Ronan spoke. They’re all staring at you. Half in awe, half terrified. Let them learn who you are.
He sat at the head of the table, a primal grin slashing across his face. He lounged like he owned the hall, likely because he did, one leg draped lazily over the other, eyes never leaving me.
But then they’ll know. The thought slipped out.
His answer came immediately. I wasn’t talking about the curse. You are the force, Verena. I see you. For everything you’re worth.
The words snapped through the bond and my body obeyed before my mind could catch up. My shoulders squared, rolling back as though I bore a crown. My chin lifted, cutting through that silence as though it were only a veil. My steps lengthened, sharpened, a commanding rhythm, filling the space.
Gods, there’s my ruin. The shiver that chased up my spine was treacherous, addictive. Then his voice sank deeper, rougher. You look like someone even the divine would kneel to.
Heat bloomed down my chest, curling in my gut, and my strut shifted, no longer calculated, no longer borrowed confidence, but bold now. Dangerous. The kind of walk that dared anyone at that table to meet my eyes and not look away.
See how they watch you? Don’t pretend you don’t love it.
One man did stare more recklessly than the rest, his eyes dragging down the length of me before hovering around my hips. I didn’t pay him any mind, just kept my admiration on Ronan.
If he looks at you again like that, I’ll take his eyes. Keep that praise on me, soulflame.
No need, I insisted. If he looks at me again like that, I’ll take his throat.
Something tightened on the other end of the thread, his want bleeding down it in a smoking heat.
Good news or bad news first. The question slipped through just as I rounded the edge of the table where men and women both sat, glaring only at me. And still, the world narrowed to only the sway of gloss at my thighs.
Good news.
You look absolutely fucking delicious in that gown. His thumb traced lazy circles over his mouth as if tasting the words.
My cheeks flared red, hit directly with his fire. Beside him, Aelora stole glances that were equal parts wounded and furious.
Tell me where I’m meant to sit, then. The empty chair next to you…or where you’ve been imagining me since I walked in?
His knees parted beneath the table, a slow shift of his body that sent heat spiraling through the bond. A low, guttural noise rolled through, hitting me like a hand closing around my neck as his gaze dragged in a consuming sweep before locking back on my eyes.
Sit beside me, and I’ll behave. Sit on me, and I won’t.
Desire stirred in my belly, and I tried to ignore it. After all, intimates didn’t go with this outfit. Couldn’t have my lust spilling all over Ronan’s fancy chairs.
He shot me a devilish grin, like he would fucking care what I soaked with my greed for him.
What’s the bad news?
He lifted the goblet to his mouth, the motion so casual it made my hands tremble. Elysian told them all who you are.
I stilled with every stare still cut into me, a different fever twisting under my skin. They know?
His hand flexed at his side as he lifted his palm, fingers curling in a slow beckon. To the chair beside him. To him.
They know exactly who you are, and it changes nothing.
I forced my feet forward. Past the ones clothed in rich threads, lounging in too-casual elegance. Consorts, allies, predators—I didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.
Their eyes raked over me with the efficiency of deciding where to strike. Some lingered with curiosity, some with hunger. Few with fear. The absence of guards unsettled me most. I hadn’t seen one since we’d landed. Which meant they weren’t needed.
Ronan rose as I approached, sliding a chair out with soundless grace, a gesture far too intimate for the hall we stood in. My pulse stumbled, despite the confidence I wore.
Even the men were beautiful here. Terrifyingly so. Some older, scarred and seasoned like Fritz. But most, like Ronan, seemed created from some merciless god’s desire.
And still, it was only Ronan I couldn’t stop looking at. The way his shirt dipped open, revealing the hard lines of muscle. The glint of the gold links resting against his throat. The trembling edge in his eyes that never quite let me go.
“Take your time, my love,” he murmured, pulling the chair back farther, inviting me closer. “But,” a pause, amusement tugging at his mouth, “we are rather hungry.”
“Hungry,” I repeated, “for food, I hope.”
The smallest spark lit in his stare. “Among other things.” A slow, wicked tilt of his lashes, a promise.
Chuckles rippled from the table, teeth flashing in half smiles. My spine straightened at the sound. If they thought I was prey, I would remind them, cursed or not, serpent or saint, I still had fangs.
I tilted my head, let my lips curl in something dangerously close to a smile. “Then I suggest you all eat carefully. Poison tends to linger.”
The laughter died at that. Only Ronan smiled, as though I’d just dominated my first move in a game I hadn’t realized we were already playing.
I lowered into the chair, the liquid cloth pooling between my thighs.
It rode up as I settled, and the cold edge of the chair kissed the exposed skin of my ass.
My breath hitched; for a second the sensation was all sharp and absurd, humiliating as I squeaked, fumbling at the fabric as I tried to tuck propriety back into place.
A quiet heat answered, the chair warming, and a drift of smoke curled up, a slow, protective veil that slipped over the more precious places with the intimacy of a hand. It eased against my shoulders, and for a ridiculous moment I considered letting the shroud do my thinking for me.
Aelora watched me through the haze, her smile honed to a blade. “So, Serena,” she said. “What’s it like, being marked? Is it as ghastly as they claim?”
Every head turned, some with restraint, some with the appetite of predators who smelled fresh blood.
I told myself her question was a provocation. That it wanted a performance. That I could give it nothing. My fist found the hem of my skirt under the table and gripped, nails biting, fabric creasing.
Dark ribbons of smoke slid along my forearm, coaxing the tension out of my fingers until I relaxed just enough to be dangerous. Across the table, Ronan’s mouth twitched. Not disdain, not quite, more like pleased curiosity. Maybe a hint of delight.
I let her words hang, refusing to answer.
Aelora reddened into a fine, imperious flush. “Obviously lack of manners is a trait, it seems.”
I raised the glass Ronan had offered, wine dark as night trapped in a rubied glass, and drank.
It slid down my throat, soothing my chest, loosening the courage off my tongue.
When I set the glass down, I let the fangs fall.
It was a tiny thing, a gesture edged the way a greeting can be sharpened into a threat.
She flinched, features folding into surprise. Gasps threaded the table, a fragile chorus that sounded comical in a hall of dragons.
“Oh?” I said, hand flying to my chest in a false alarm. “Were you speaking to me?” The words were simple, ridiculous, and then lethal in a way that still severed. “If saying my name properly is too much, I’ll gladly settle for your silence.”