Wicked Crown (Shattered Kingdom Book 2)

by Angelina J. Steffort

  Gandrett, locked between his arms, her spine arched slightly, head tilted back a bit as if she were examining Brax’s face, but her eyes were heavy-lidded, almost closed, cheeks flushed. She looked happy for once.

  “What is your assessment of the situation, Chancellor?” Joshua’s voice was like an echo in the haze that was spreading in Nehelon’s mind. “Chancellor?”

  Nehelon blinked to break that focus that allowed him to even pick up her scent in the room full of people. She had sat right where he was standing now, and the draw of cherry blossoms and orange oil lingered even when she was dancing with Brax Brenheran.

  Remember your role, Nehelon Idresea.

  “On your father’s speech?” he assumed the topic he’d been asked about. “Worthy and dignified words.” He forced his gaze off the slowing movements of Gandrett and Brax, off her opening eyes, the lazy smile on her lips. “I would think it went well. I haven’t noticed any words of outrage, more surprise, shock even—” He glanced around the room, listening intently to confirm those words were there, and found Lady Isylte and her daughter at the end of the table, both sweetly smiling back at him when he met their gaze. He inclined his head, wondering if Isylte remembered his face. His hair was shorter than it had been back then in Ilaton, when she had been a child…

  “What is your impression, milord?” He didn’t dare let his attention drift for too long, and careful not to move suspiciously fast, he turned his head back to face the prince and the Lord of Eedwood.

  The two young humans’ answers suggested Armand Denderlain was full-heartedly convinced that the road was paved for the future while Joshua … Joshua Brenheran radiated an air of concern, of something beyond what his father had laid out for the people of Sives—and all of Neredyn. All except for his people. For the Fae who were trapped in their own lands, in loss of time and space and ability to act, to free themselves. The urge to spit on the ground rose in Nehelon, and he battled it back, returning his gaze to the dance floor where Brax was now desperately eyeing his sister, who was still dancing with the Aucrosta heir.

  He had heard about the plans Lady Crystal had for her daughter, and even if she meant nothing to him—at least not in the way his kiss had implied—he followed the instinct to do the right thing, to protect her.

  Or it was simply too tempting a chance to let pass—

  “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.” He nodded at the prince and the lord, both too young for the burden on their shoulders, and slid through the crowd, which was slowly filling the dance floor, his eyes on the target—which wasn’t the pretty Mckenzie but the young woman who was the only one here who knew what he was. And all he could see was how her eyes had closed, yielding control to Brax, her back arched, her chest pressing against the young Brenheran heir’s, and that Brax could consider himself lucky that they were in the palace of Ackwood and not in the Fae lands where he might have blown the boy out of the picture with half a thought. No, here, Nehelon had to play by the rules—human rules. So he took a deep breath, letting Gandrett’s scent lead him.

  Gandrett didn’t notice as he silently stepped up to Brax and spoke quietly into his ear that he was here to relieve him of the burden of the Child of Vala. To his surprise, Brax took the offer without hesitation, nodding with a crease of worry between his brows as he glanced back at the fair-haired side of the coin.

  When Nehelon peered back, Mckenzie’s gaze seemed to be beseeching her brother to come interrupt the dance with Leonidas Aucrosta. So he did. He always would. For his twin. Nehelon understood better than anyone could ever guess.

  For a moment, his chest ached for what he had left behind in Ulfray, but when Brax was about to unpeel himself from Gandrett, he was ready.

  Carefully—so carefully, he slid his arms in place at the same moment Brax removed his, gently taking on Gandrett’s weight as the Brenheran heir gave him a nod and a look of what seemed to be mixed emotions before he turned away to tap Leonidas Aucrosta on the shoulder and free Mckenzie of the prince’s horrible dancing.

  He did it—kept glancing over his shoulder at Brax’s frowning, at Mckenzie’s look in the swirling burgundy dress, Leonidas Aucrosta, who retreated to the tent with a sour face as he noticed how beautifully the young woman could dance when dancing with anyone but him—did it all to keep himself distracted from the slim waist between his hands, from the one who was swaying against him in beat with the music, who hadn’t opened her eyes even as he had taken Brax’s place.

  The music was a tapestry of sound, of memories, of cheeriness, as she let Brax guide her in small circles, slowing and slowing until they swayed from side to side, her feet following his movements as if they had never done anything else. His hands had tightened on her waist, and he had shifted a bit, supporting her spine as it bent into his touch, too lazy to keep upright all by itself.

  Gandrett let her head bounce back so she faced upward, and if she opened her eyes, she would look upon the cloudless night sky above. But not yet. For now, there was only the music and the lightness in her feet and her mind and her heart. No Meister, no Shygon cult, no sword, no scars, no magic that threatened to consume her existed. Just … just for now, she deserved to let go, to enjoy the celebrations.

  Brax turned them in another small circle. She could no longer tell where the tent was, too much haze of lovely sensations was filling her. The music, the chattering of voices—something she had never heard in her life, not even at the dance in Demea’s honor in Eedwood. No, there she had been on duty. As she was here, but Gandrett didn’t care. The music was sweeping her away. Brax was sweeping her away. And the warm breeze, it carried the scent of flowers, of summer, and—

  It hit Gandrett like a brick in the face, like a wall of solid iron, that nameless scent that had dulled the edge on her panic, on the horror of the gutted sacrifice at the riverbank—

  As she blinked her eyes open, she found it wasn’t Brax looking down at her, hands tightening around her waist as if anxious she might slip out of his grasp … the depthless blue diamond of Nehelon’s gaze greeted her instead, proving that her senses hadn’t betrayed her, and his fingers brushed over the small of her back as he slid one hand higher up her spine, supporting her weight even when she bent away, wondering if she was dreaming, if the sparkling wine had made her hallucinate. Her mind sure was slow enough to think of stepping out of his arms, to demand to know what had happened.

  Nehelon gave her a lazy smile, something flickering in his eyes that reminded her of the predator he was. “Brax was needed elsewhere,” he said in a voice that wasn’t that of the chancellor he was supposed to be here in Ackwood, or the brooding Fae who had traveled with her, hunted Shygon worshippers with her, and taunted her magic. It was rough, a bit breathless even, as his eyes scanned her face and wandered down her throat to follow that gap at the front of her gown. “I hope you don’t mind. I took it upon myself to free him up to save Mckenzie from the wolves.” One of his hands disappeared from her back to point over his shoulder at the dancing twins.

  Something in Gandrett wanted to object, but Nehelon took her hand and led her in a circle that was too fast for her, and she stumbled over her own feet, crashing into the steel of Nehelon’s chest.

  A sound that reminded her of a laugh rumbled through him and resonated in her own chest, an echo of what the male before her might hide underneath that mask that didn’t even slip when he dulled his glamour. But he did nothing—nothing—to push her away, to scold her for being clumsy. Nothing. And Gandrett … for some reason that might have had something to do with the sparkling wine, or with Nehelon’s damned scent, which made her inhale deeply, drink in that other-worldly fragrance with eager senses, or with the fact that Nyssa was looking upon the world with a smile, Gandrett didn’t pull away from the nearness of the male who annoyed her to death for the greater part of the days they spent together but who had also saved her from the priory, who had saved her from her magic.

  Her arms locked around his waist as he continued swaying them
side to side, his own arms around her shoulders like a shield against the world, against Vala’s prying eyes, who had lost a Child tonight. It was different from dancing with Brax, from hugging Armand, from anything she knew, this closeness she allowed—she sought—between them. Slowly—so slowly, they moved, Gandrett’s eyes drooping, not from tiredness but from the need to shut out every other sensation but the scent that filled her like a promise, like the ringing of a bell which wouldn’t stop echoing inside her.

  His movements were like the waves of a grain field in the wind, like slow ripples in the golden rye. Familiar somehow, even if she had never been so close to anyone, not like that. It was as if a song of its own was playing in her chest—between them, just the two of them. An ancient song. And there was no beginning to it and no end.

  Nehelon hardly dared to breathe as Gandrett leaned into him, her scent laced with that of sparkling wine. She had decided against the Order tonight—consciously decided against it—he could tell by the way her eyes were glazed, how she hadn’t shied away from Brax. Not even from him as Nehelon had encircled her shoulders with his arms. No, she had locked her arms around his waist, making his stomach tighten, his heart beat faster—how he hoped she couldn’t hear it under the layers of music. His own Fae ears picked up more, and he ached … ached for a moment alone with her. To revel in her embrace, to steal her away from a world of dangers that she had no idea were awaiting her. From the path that he had set her on ten years ago.

  His feet were moving them away from the crowd before he could make a conscious decision about it. This was Nyssa’s night, meant for a sweet little escape from reality. And his escape was right there, her warmth seeping into him as her cheek rested against his chest, eyes closed again as if she herself was clinging to that moment between them.

  The gods damn the role he had to play. Nehelon lowered his face and brushed his mouth over her hair, so lightly it wouldn’t disturb her, and let the scent of cherry blossoms and orange oil brand him.

  Chapter Thirty

  The music had become a buzz in the background by the time Gandrett was willing to open her eyes again, and the song of crickets filled the air as did the cracking of torches. Nehelon’s arms were still locked around her shoulders, and her own … they clung around his waist, the movement of the muscles of his sides familiar by now, the warmth of his chest against her a sensation she wasn’t sure she should be enjoying this much.

  “I thought you’d fallen asleep,” Nehelon said as she pulled away from his chest, the warm summer night cold on her face after the comforting heat that had warmed her cheek.

  “How could I sleep … you were rocking like a boat.” Gandrett couldn’t help but smile as she met his gaze, her mind still slower than her eyes, making her surroundings blur with the white of billowing gossamer and orange firelight before she found sanctuary in the blue diamonds that had brightened with their own light like two distant stars.

  “I was half-carrying you here.” His lips twitched in some sort of amusement she couldn’t quite understand, and Gandrett leaned further back to get a clear view of that face where he had loosed the damper on his glamour, revealing the layers of savage beauty beneath.

  “My weight has never bothered you before.” Her words were a low drawl, and Nehelon slid his hands to either side of her waist, his thumb brushing the bottom of her ribs in a lazy stroke. Gandrett shivered despite the heat of his hands. That brutal warrior, that wicked Fae, so … gentle.

  “It hasn’t … It doesn’t.”

  She debated if it would let her burn in Hel’s realm if she touched him. Vala knew she wanted to—no, not Vala. Vala was no longer at her side. But Nyssa was. And Nyssa would not see any harm in an innocent touch—even if the thrill Gandrett felt as she placed a hand on his chest, fingers following the elegant embroidery along the lapel of his jacket, was anything but innocent. And as she let her fingers wander up, up, she hardly noticed the small, private tent he had brought her to, far away from where he had replaced Brax on the dance floor. One of those tents meant for the later hours of the celebrations when the crowd dispersed into smaller parties—the less official part of the Midsummer Solstice. His scent filled the space between them, taunting her to lean closer again.

  Without a warning, his hands slid lower, clasping her hips where the skirts of her dress spread and slid with every movement. He studied her with that same smile, but his eyes—

  His gaze had turned into that of a predator, lingering on her face, on her throat as he lifted her an inch from the ground, his fingers not slipping even a fraction on the smooth fabric that was the only barrier between his hands and her bare skin. Her breath hitched in surprise; Nehelon’s lips curling in response, that predatory focus wandering to where her chest expanded as she attempted an even breath. Lazily, his gaze followed that sliver of bare skin down to her navel, a new kind of light sparking in those eyes as he leaned in to graze his nose along the side of her neck all the way up to her ear.

  “I can carry you all night if that’s what you want.” His words tickled her skin, made her core tighten, and she tilted back her head, feeling strands of hair sliding back over her shoulder as his nose followed her movement down to her collar and halted there.

  Gods. What was he doing? More. Her body demanded more. She tried to breathe through the sensation, ignore what had never been meant for her, but every single breath of his pushed her a bit further as he lingered there as if waiting for a silent sign, and she yielded to it, her back arching, inviting him to follow that gap in the fabric. She felt her weight shifting, her balance resting in his broad hands, and he pulled her more tightly against him, the hard muscles of his abdomen holding her upright as the world around her swayed.

  “You know what I would do with you if we were celebrating this solstice in Ulfray?” he growled against her skin, the heat of his breath raising goosebumps.

  Her hand made it to his neck, fingertips grazing over his hairline as his breathing turned rugged on her collarbone. “What would you do?” She was more thinking aloud than really asking.

  Nehelon responded with a low laugh that was feral to what little was left of the Child of Vala she was supposed to be … she had once been. Tonight was Nyssa’s night—

  With steps so slow, so light that she hardly realized it, he moved them back toward the burgundy divan. White gossamer floated like delicate clouds above them, around them, the entrances of the tent flowing shut as she glanced to the sides—his magic cutting off the world. One more step. Another one. And another. Nehelon set her down, his hands remaining where they were, his mouth hovering close … so close to her throat.

  More. Gandrett swallowed, and his chuckle vibrated in her body.

  “In Ulfray, we celebrate the night of the goddess of love in a less … civilized setting.” He lifted his head, allowing Gandrett’s hand to come to rest on the corded muscle of his shoulder, the soft texture of his jacket leaving little to the imagination, while she eyed the small, secluded tent that was far from the voices, the music a carpet of sound, isolating them from the world.

  Nehelon held her gaze as she dared meet his, the glamour almost gone from his features, the powerful Fae male shining through like a wicked sunrise. The fabric of her dress sighed under his hands sliding lower, leaving a trail of heat along the sides of her thighs as he sat on the velvet divan, knees apart, and pulled her between his legs.

  “In Ulfray,” he drawled, his voice a melody of wildness hidden in the night, “the skies are our canopy, flower petals our beds … and we don’t need the fire.” He snapped his fingers, and the nearest torch went out. “The heat comes from the one we choose for the celebrations.” As if in answer to his words, a rush of heat ran through Gandrett’s core.

  A small noise escaped her, and Nehelon watched her with those eyes—

  She had seen him in fighting mode, in deadly focus, but this … this Nehelon … there was nothing of the brooding male she had met months ago. His gaze was darkness and flames, untamed as
it roved over her, hungry.

  “I think I’d very much like to sleep on flower petals.” Gandrett gasped as one broad hand drifted further down to hook around her knee and pulled her closer while he braced the other one behind him, leaning back on the divan.

  “Who said anything about sleeping?”

  That sliver of skin, pale in the gossamer-dimmed moonlight … it drove him crazy. Nehelon bit his lip, keeping himself from running his tongue over her navel, up to where that full roundness of her breasts was well concealed under the loose fabric. It would cost him less than half a thought to rip it off—with his hands or his magic. He very much preferred his hands in such a situation, though. Nehelon stifled a laugh and reached for her knee instead.

  It gave way easily as he pulled her forward and rested back on the smooth velvet, no longer knowing where to draw the line—if he would be able to draw a line at all.

  “Who said anything about sleeping?” His own words sounded in the half-light like a promise as he let go and propped himself up on both elbows, just taking in her shape, the soft curve of her lips, too high up for him to reach—thank the gods, or he would have devoured her with a kiss.

  But Gandrett, as if Nyssa herself was leading her, slid that knee over his thigh, and then the other side, straddling him.

  “In Ulfray,” she breathed, and Nehelon prayed to the gods that she wouldn’t feel the proof of his hot, pulsing desire as she sat on his lap. “It sounds like you are missing that place.” Her eyes, pinned on him in what, for her, had to be near-darkness, were glazed with something more than the effect of the sparkling wine. “When’s the last time you were there?”