by Kyra Gregory
Neyva turned away, wringing her hands.
Riffin’s shoulders dropped at the sight of her so shaken. “You’ve known Thane all your life,” he said. “He’s a good man, with a caring heart, and he’s loyal above all.”
Blinking her own despair from her eyes, Neyva scoffed. “Tell that to every woman he’s ever fucked!” she retorted.
Riffin recoiled, nostrils flaring. He knew she was upset and that was all that kept him from biting back. “Would that not suit you?” he asked, shrugging. “He has his—and that leaves you to have yours—whoever that might be.”
Neyva’s features contorted with anger as she stormed over, her hand flying across his face, leaving a hot, stinging sensation in his cheek. “You think because I’m illegitimate that that is what I want for myself? For my children? To have their livelihood at stake and reputation in tatters?” She took a deep breath, voice shaking, “Do you think I want to... Do you think I want to be called a whore like my mother was?”
She stormed away before he could even think to reply, his mouth agape as her words sank in. Eyeing the servants beneath his lashes, watching as they turned their attention elsewhere, he closed the gap between them, “Is that what this is about?” he asked, quietly this time.
She half-shrugged, looking him up and down, “This will be my second marriage in a matter of days! Tell me I will be called anything else and I will call you a liar!” she exclaimed.
“I’ve done my best to fix what’s been done. I will do the same with this when the time comes,” Riffin said, speaking through gritted teeth. “But, tonight, you marry.”
Dutiful as she’d always been, she took a deep breath and pursed her lips together, nodding. As she turned to walk away, returning to her preparations, Riffin didn’t miss the sight of her reaching for the bruise on her cheek, grimacing beneath her cautious touch.
Turning on his heel, he made his way into the throne room, a short smile sneaking onto the corners of his lips as he made out Thane’s nervous pacing at the front of the room. The smile quickly faded at the sight of his panic-stricken expression.
Much like his sister, his dutiful manner often won out against the nerves and fear. Upon seeing him, Thane came to a stop, bowing his head in his direction, never minding the heavy rising and falling of his chest. He played with the cuffs of his shirt, tugging them ever so slightly from beneath the sleeves of his black coat.
Riffin grabbed him from either side of the head, pulling his forehead against his. “Breathe,” he commanded. Eyes shut, Thane took in a slow, deep breath, turning away to release it. “I know this isn’t what you wanted,” he said.
“It’s not what she wants,” Thane said, breathing out shakily. “That troubles me far more than doing my duty.”
“My sister understands duty also,” he said.
Thane opened his mouth to speak, quickly closing it again, combing his fingers through his hair.
A breath catching in the back of his throat, he seized Thane’s face in his hands, “Listen to me,” he whispered. “I have never seen my sister upon breaking point—she’s there, now,” he said. Thane’s gaze, equally troubled, met his, and, while making him feel guilty was the last thing on his mind, it comforted Riffin somewhat that the guilt would help. “I hate to do this to you—I really would—but I need you to hold it together for her. I need you to hold her together. Can you do that?”
Thane scrunched his eyes shut, then nodded. Breathing a short sigh of relief, Riffin’s grip tightened around him. “Do I have time to speak with her?” he asked.
Riffin shook his head, “The nobles have already started arriving,” he said. “She’s finishing her preparations.”
“Not even for a minute?” he asked, desperately. Grimacing, he withdrew slightly, shaking his head, “She thinks I brought her back to take advantage of her! I cannot have her believe that!”
“She’ll believe what she likes,” he said. “She’s too overwhelmed to believe anything other than what she feels—even if it’s not the truth.” Riffin clapped him on the back of the shoulder, drawing him into his side for a brief embrace.
To Riffin’s dismay, no doubt ready to antagonise matters further, the noble guests with Manus Baran at the forefront, made their way into the room uninvited. “How is the happy groom?” he asked. “Surely thrilled to be marrying into position.”
Thane took a step forward and Riffin threw his arm out across his chest, holding him back, “Ignore them,” he whispered. “From this point on, ignore their prying eyes, ignore their snide remarks and their rotten faces—ignore it all.”
“Have you not asked enough of me?” Thane asked, causing Riffin’s blood to run cold. “Was asking me to marry and take your sister against her will not enough?”
“It’s more than I ever wished to ask of you,” Riffin confessed, “but I have no choice in the matter.”
No, he didn’t. None of them did. As far as he was concerned, they were all puppets—manipulated to the liking of the nobles. Glancing in their direction, Riffin couldn’t be more certain that their time to pay for this would come. When that day came, he would make them suffer.
Chapter 25
THANE STOOD AT THE front of the room, hands clasped together, waiting with about as much patience as he could muster. The world seemed to darken around him, a nervous energy working its way into the pit of his stomach. It was unsettling. He tackled all his nerves in much the same way—drowning himself in duty or drink—doing what he could to ignore it. Only, this couldn’t be ignored.
This was duty. It was duty and it was something else entirely. His racing heart was enough to make him sick, sweat trickling down his spine.
Riffin clapped a hand on his shoulder, causing him to jump, “Are you all right?” he asked.
Thane shifted his weight, nodding curtly. He had to be, he thought, turning back to face the throne room doors. Riffin couldn’t have put it into better words—Neyva was struggling and she needed stability. It became his duty to provide it.
Soon, the doors opened, the sound of the creaking metal hinges resonating across the large room.
Malia walked in first, making her way to the front. He didn’t miss the way she glared at the nobles, bringing his attention back to them in a time when he was explicitly told to ignore every single one of them.
But the alternative... The alternative made him feel no better.
Neyva entered the room in a manner that seemed dreadfully unusual of her. Day to day, she was like a storm—charging across a room full of confidence and purpose. Now—Now was different. She walked in slowly, her eyes trained on her next step. The look on her face... If the bruise that marred her cheek wasn’t enough to anger him, it was the despair with which her eyes were filled that would do it instead. This wasn’t like her—none of this was like her—and the sight of what she had been reduced to made him blatantly aware of the devastation the Queen’s death had caused, rippling throughout all of their lives.
A mix of anger, of pity, of guilt, all swirled together inside of him, each one fighting for dominance over his attentions. He could give in to none of them, for they would all bar him from doing his duty to his King. Giving in to the anger would cause him to attack the nobles, with no care in the world towards the alliance that supposedly rested on their shoulders. The pity would lead him to touch her, to move ever closer to her in a time when she wanted nothing and no attentions from anyone—certainly not from him. As for the guilt... He wasn’t sure what actions the guilt would lead him to take, though he knew that, whichever he decided, no good would come out of it for his friend—for his King.
He had no choice. She had no choice. To make things better for her, to make things better for his King, meant causing an equal sort of pain.
Consumed by his thoughts, Riffin jolted him in the small of his back when it came time to seal their arrangement with a kiss. As though his signature on the papers hadn’t been crooked enough as he took the pen with an uneasy hand, he hadn’t accounted f
or the kiss—not when he was so preoccupied by other thoughts. He kept himself at as great of a distance from her as possible as he leaned in, figuring she’ll soon have him in more proximity than she’d like. Their kiss was…uninspired, to say the least—a peck that did the deed and forewent anything else.
As Manus promised, there was no finery, no time allowed for them to dine, or to celebrate. As far as they were all concerned, there was about as much to celebrate at this wedding as there was at a funeral.
Unable to stay for even a glass of wine, two noblemen’s wives and a couple of servants whisked Neyva away almost immediately, ushering her down the corridors.
Downing the contents of his chalice, reaching to pour himself some more, Thane leaned towards Riffin. “Do I have the honour of having the King within the audience?” he asked.
No doubt recalling Thane’s response when viewing the consummation was discussed for his own wedding, Riffin raised a brow, “Do you want me there?” he asked.
He couldn’t believe he was even considering this. Possibly more brazen than usual, a product of anger mixed with wine, he cocked his head to one side, “Why not? I live for the awkwardness of having my best friend stand beside me as I bed his sister,” he retorted sarcastically.
“I’ll be outside,” he said. Though the touch of bitterness in Riffin’s tone couldn’t be denied, Thane need only look at the blazing anger in his eyes, cast in the nobles’ direction, to know it wasn’t directed at him.
Thane raked his fingers through his hair, swirling his chalice before downing another glass of wine. “This is absurd,” he whispered.
“It’s the only way I could get her out of this,” Riffin said. “I didn’t account for Manus gaining the upper-hand in this as well. I hoped it would throw him off, force him to return to the Council and regroup. I hoped he’d slip.”
Thane clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “He needs to be dealt with once this is over,” he said. “Whether we discover who is involved in the Alliance Council or not, he needs to be disposed of, and I have just the poison for him in mind.”
Riffin sighed as Manus started his approach towards them. “No more talk of murder,” he said, a touch of cheer in his voice, “it’s your wedding night.”
Manus stopped short of them, bowing his head as a show of respect—one he neither felt, nor truly expressed with his half-hearted efforts. “It’s time,” he said.
The nobles surrounded him, just about ready to lay their hands on him and usher him down the corridors themselves, treating him as though he were some sort of prisoner in the place he called home. He wouldn’t have it, rolling his eyes at them before walking in the direction of Neyva’s chambers of his own accord.
The walk seemed to last forever—and not long enough. He wished he’d been smarter about the entire situation, having found a way to deal with this in a way that would’ve spared them both this entire ordeal. The Lionessan Capital was armed with so much gunpowder, it would be enough to set the entire palace alight—perhaps it wouldn’t have been such a bad idea. Not only would it have proved an appropriate distraction, cutting off this needless ceremony, but perhaps they would’ve lost some of the traitors amongst the carnage.
Even so, the casualties would have been more than just their enemies—such a thing would have had to have been coordinated in a way that innocent servants and guards, as well as the family themselves, would not have been caught up in the chaos.
Coming up to Neyva’s room, all thoughts of alternative solutions were for nothing—there was no more time and no more chances. With her open chambers in front of him and the nobles coming up behind him, there was no turning back now.
Taking in a deep breath, as well as cursing his fortune to have been brought up a dutiful servant of the King, even if he did call him his best friend, he made his way into the room.
The servants dispersed almost immediately upon his entering, revealing Neyva to be standing uneasily, donning a white linen gown. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders, longer than he ever remembered it to be, with delicate braids framing her fear-stricken features.
The nobles were quick to enter behind him, standing at a distance, though in too great a proximity to even allow them a moment alone in each other’s company. Even if it was possible, he didn’t know what to say. Despite all of his best intentions—to her and to her brother—nothing would take away from the humiliation and the awkwardness.
Eyeing her beneath his lashes, she avoided his gaze as he slipped out of his coat, handing it, as well as his belt and sword, to the nearest servant. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat as she gave him a minute, casting her gaze elsewhere for just a second. He toed his way out of his boots, untucking his shirt from his leather pants and tugging at the drawstring that held them together.
Neyva moved to the foot of the bed, pulling her hair over one shoulder as a hot flush burned at her cheeks and neck. He closed the gap between them, standing in front of her. Though he was sure to keep his attention turned away from the nobles behind him, she couldn’t find it within her to do the same. Her gaze flitted over his shoulder, attracting more whispers and soft, quiet chuckles. He could feel that same prickle of heat working its way down his back, though he knew he had to hold it together.
He placed his hands at either side of her face, blinding her to the men behind him. “Ignore them,” he whispered. He offered her a smile, the best he could muster, and added, “As difficult as that may be.”
She allowed herself to breathe, if only for a second, having held it for long enough. Lowering his hands, he brought them to her hips, his palms gliding over the loose cotton of her dress. He licked his lips, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, feeling the way the ice-cold floor sent a chill down his spine, doing nothing to tend to the hot flush he felt burning him from the inside. “I would ask if I may,” he whispered, “but we have no choice.”
Neyva swallowed the lump in her throat and, subtle as it was, she nodded.
He leaned in, closing the gap between them and pressing his lips to hers. It felt no different to the last time they kissed—lacking passion, a kiss fuelled by fear and duty. He kept his touch light and chaste—this was nothing but a duty to be done, he told himself, and they needn’t do more than what was expected of them.
Nonetheless, it felt too callous to do nothing at all. To throw her on the bed and place himself upon her—the thought of that alone was far too much to bear.
A kiss, a gentle touch of his hand, his arm wrapped around her—he hoped something about it would put her at ease, to make this a somewhat less terrifying experience than it need be.
When his lips left hers, the breath she released was riddled with fear. Her fingers, cold and shaking, brushed his arm as they inched higher, clutching at his shoulders in a bid to keep herself steady.
Certain she couldn’t keep herself standing for much longer, he wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled her to her feet, shuffling them both further up the bed before leaning over. She shifted beneath him, finding comfort in the inches of space still left between them as he propped himself up on his hands.
Although sheer curtains hung from the canopy above the bed, no servant moved to close them to allow them a modicum of privacy. It wouldn’t matter, Thane told himself, since there’d be nothing to see. Her gown came to just passed her knees and hiking it up enough to do what needed to be done left it pooling at her sides. His shirt, loose and untucked, did much of the same even as he lowered his pants, leaning over her and enveloping her. Between what was left of their clothing and his body, he shielded her from the world around them as best as he could manage.
Her face flushed, she brought her hand to her lips as she turned her head away. The moment seemed to last forever and, though Thane didn’t want her to look at him, having her turn away did nothing to help the sickening realisation that this was all forced.
One hand slipped between them, leaning into her as he brushed the tip of his nose against t
he crook of her neck.
Then she yelped, a gasp escaping her and shaking her whole body. Before she could scream or say a word, he clapped his hand over her mouth.
Finally, she looked at him. Their gazes met, her eyes wide, and understanding passed between them as he lifted his index finger from over her mouth and placed it over his lips, silencing her. He removed his hand slowly, uncertain as to whether she would say anything, then placed his lips over hers and leaned into her further.
Damp against his cheek, he opened his eyes to find a lone tear strolling across her temple as she breathed out a short sigh. Ever so slightly, she seemed to settle. A hand clenched into a fist around his shirt, her forehead leaning into his shoulder once he pulled his lips away from hers, a startling hitch in her breath resonated in his chest.
Adjusting himself and his clothing, and pulling back abruptly, rolling off the side of the bed in one quick motion, he grabbed the hilt of his sword and withdrew it from his sheath. As he spun back to the bed, Neyva gasped, bringing her knees to her chest as she scrambled towards the headboard, fear-stricken.
“What are you—“
Before the nobles could say another word, never having witnessed a consummation that took such a turn, Thane took the blade to the bedsheets, ripping out the blood-stained fabric. “Is that good enough for you?” he asked, dangling it in front of Manus. His sword remained firm in his hand, with those guards that stood in the room loyal to him, never daring to move against him. “Or do you require something else?” he asked, squaring up to him, rivalling the older man in height.
Manus shot his gaze over his shoulder, taking in Neyva’s quivering form as she leaned into the headboard of her bed, her fingers sinking into the fabric of the pillow beside her. Thane shifted to stand in his line of sight, demanding he turn his attentions to him. “This’ll do,” he said, snatching the bloody cloth from him.