A bucket of ice-water would have been the more gentle way of reminding him.
Remember your role.
Gandrett was about to lean over him when he did remember his role. The reason he was there. The reason he had robbed that woman—and his instincts flared for another heartbeat as he took in the vision of her above him—of her home, that he had let her suffer in that priory, and all to lift the curse on his homeland.
Remember your role.
His hands were so fast she didn’t see them coming as they grabbed her forearms right before her fingers landed on his chest. A wordless complaint escaped her before his fingers closed in a rough grip.
For a moment, a string of words filled her head—words … pleas to let her taste that half-open mouth of his. But as he kept staring at her, features set, eyes turning from horrified to cold, Gandrett knew. She just knew that moment … Whatever it was, it was over. And she couldn’t tell if it was the wine speaking or the disappointment that she had never expected would hit her worse than a slap in the face, but she let her arms go limp in his grasp and said, “That day … in Eedwood forest…” Nehelon’s gaze froze. “Did I dream that you kissed me?”
As she waited, waited for his response, Gandrett realized it was not ice that filled his eyes but was something she hadn’t thought she would ever see on his face. Regret.
She braced herself for his response, but no words came out of him. He had gone preternaturally still as if the world no longer existed, time no longer existed, even his fingers, locked around her wrists, remained motionless.
“Did you or did you not kiss me?” Gandrett pushed. If she didn’t get him to respond now, she may never get an answer. And with his hips between her knees, his powerful body taut before her on the divan—when would she ever get that close to him to even consider asking.
Nehelon turned his head to the side, and the torch that had guttered out of life ignited, throwing dancing shadows over his now glamoured features.
He sighed through his nose. “Do you really want to know?”
She wouldn’t have asked, would she? Her magic stirred in her chest. “Only if you tell the truth.” She braced herself for whatever response she had triggered, for the feral Fae male who had pinned her against the wall in his study, who had killed and burned in Alencourt, who had spent centuries deceiving the realms of Neredyn.
“Even if I wanted to, I cannot lie, Gandrett. I am Fae.” He faced her, a reflection of his inner struggle working its path across the planes of his face, right into his gaze.
She considered letting him off the hook. What would it change if she knew? What would it change if he had kissed her? What if he hadn’t? As if in response to that last thought, her magic coiled. But, good if he couldn’t lie. For once she wouldn’t need to guess. “So tell me, Nehelon. Did you kiss me in Eedwood forest when the wolf had struck me down?” She remembered vividly, his lips, a whisper of a kiss—
And as if Nehelon was remembering the same, he nodded. “Everyone makes mistakes once in a while.”
His words hit her in the gut, and the magic in her chest rumbled in response. “A mistake,” she repeated in a whisper, straightening—trying to, but he wouldn’t let go of her wrists, his gaze full of unspoken words.
“Gandrett—”
She tugged against his grasp, fashioning a brave face, an expression that may have deceived others; She couldn’t care less if he had or hadn’t kissed her, if he called it a mistake. But she knew she couldn’t deceive the Fae male before her. His keen senses could sure hear her heart race in her chest, scent the reaction of her body to how he’d touched her a minute ago … no, there was no fooling Nehelon.
“Let me go,” she demanded in a voice that sounded tired more than anything.
His fingers flipped open, letting her hands drop to their initial destination. But Gandrett didn’t let her palms linger on his chest, she didn’t allow herself to savor the hard muscle as she pushed herself off him, didn’t dare acknowledge how his gaze flicked to her chest and back to her face.
“Let’s be glad we’re not in Ulfray, Chancellor,” she eventually said, her words slow, so slow from the effect of the sparkling wine that seemed to hit now that she stood upright, no one but herself carrying her weight, and she swayed on the spot like the flames of that torch that was illuminating her embarrassment. “We wouldn’t want to make any more mistakes.”
As if her words were poison, Nehelon cringed ever so slightly, and she wasn’t sure if the satisfaction of having hit him right back would be enough to make it back to the palace without those tears punching their way through.
“This”—he gestured at the tent, the divan, the two of them—“was nothing,” he said, now sitting up. “It’s the Solstice. Nyssa won’t mind a small slip.”
“I wouldn’t call this nothing, but who am I to tell?” The power in Gandrett’s chest flared, begging her for a way out. Gandrett ignored it. “I am just a Child of Vala, consecrated to a life of servitude to a goddess I haven’t even chosen. Forbidden from ever touching a man.” She didn’t care what he thought. Her tongue was loose, spraying words into the tent that she would never—never—usually speak. “Forbidden from ever being touched.”
Nehelon was on his feet, towering over her as he stepped closer to brush one finger over her cheek. “You had a lot of wine, Gandrett.” His finger drifted to her lips and wandered from top to bottom. “Maybe you shouldn’t speak at all tonight, or you’ll say something you’ll regret.”
Gandrett snatched his hand away, too slow for what she was usually capable of, but her body wasn’t responding the way she wanted it to. The perfect control she was used to, gone. “Touch me again and—”
Nehelon studied her as she was searching for words until her anger deflated and what was left was heaviness. Then, he said, his glamour faltering for the briefest moment as he folded his arms across his chest as if to prove a point, “I won’t touch you again, Gandrett Brayton. Not like that.” He held her gaze, something different awakening in his diamond eyes. A silent promise that was more unsettling than anything he had said—or done—that night. “Not until you ask me to.”
Part II
A Path of Darkness
Chapter Thirty-One
The desert sucked. Worse than the dusty fields he had spent most of his childhood on.
It had been a while since that queer horse had found him near the Ulfrayan border and had blocked his path, again and again, until he had given in and opened the pack tied to its saddle and found a message there—Gandrett’s message.
He had cried at first, unable to believe that Shaelak would take his mother away just to let Vala bring his sister back into his life—if what he had of Gandrett were only a few words scripted on a small piece of parchment.
He had been wondering, for almost exactly as long, how it was possible that Gandrett had sent him a horse. How she had known that he needed help, but he had climbed into the saddle and let the bay mount carry him far, far away from the spooky greenery of the Ulfrayan border, which had gotten too close to be at ease.
He had arrived days later at the shit-hole priory that had destroyed his family years ago, traveling slow, taking breaks to mourn, to beseech Vala to take his mother into her realm, to Shaelak, to make her transition easy. And to shed the tears that had not come those first days since the woman had come to burn down their farm.
It was his mother who had sent him away. Urged him to run. To not grieve when the time came. Days and days, the strangers had paved their way through Alencourt, armed with the turquoise flame that meant they were magic-wielders. They hadn’t shied away from the assaults of the villagers. They hadn’t feared the threats of being exiled to the Fae lands. On the contrary, they had met branding words with branding irons and sharp tongues with sharp knives.
Vala knew they had carved open and bled out some of their victims. He had heard the screams in the night and hadn’t left the farm for fear of what would become of his mother. And in the morning
, he had seen the trails of still-wet blood drawn in symbols on the burnt grass of their fires. Turquoise fires that spoke of something darker than rogue magic. He’d heard rumors from other villages that had been destroyed like Alencourt, that they did it in the name of the god of dragons … Shygon. He shuddered at the thought alone.
His mother had known they were coming for them next, and all she had said was that she wanted him to run. And he had. He would rot in Hel’s realm forever for it—leaving an invalid behind.
But she had beseeched him to go. To find Gandrett and stay at her side. Do anything to make sure they had at least each other. So he had set his course south with nothing but the clothes on his body, the bow and quiver of arrows he had snatched from the barn, and the hunting knife that he always kept close—even in his bed.
“When’s the last time you’ve eaten, Drew?” the lanky boy with blond waves asked as Drew shoveled the steaming stew without tasting it, half-burning the roof of his mouth in the process. Drew didn’t care.
“Before the desert,” Drew answered without lifting his gaze.
Drew. Not Andrew. Named after his father, no one had called him Andrew since his father’s death years ago—not even his mother, the mention of the name too painful.
Drew slid his free hand into his pocket and fingered the piece of parchment Gandrett had sent with the lifesaving Lim, who was taken care of in the stables.
Lim will bring you to the priory, Andrew. The Meister knows you’re coming. When you arrive there, find Kaleb and Surel. They’ll watch out for you. You’ll be safe there until I come for you. I love you, little brother. Gandrett.
The words, impossible, a miracle were the only thing that mattered now. Gandrett. He would wait for her, and then—his fingers tightened around his spoon—he would find and kill those fire-spitting monsters who had eradicated his home.
Addie kept watching the crowd disperse as the night grew older, the music no longer as elegant as it had been in the beginning but full of the promise of a night worthy of the goddess of love. A glance to the head of the table informed her Armand and Joshua were still busy answering the questions of curious guests, Lady Crystal beside them, glowing like a beautiful gem, engaged in conversation with various foreigners who had to be part of that marriage plot she was planning for her daughter. Addie’s stomach turned at the thought, and she checked on the dance floor with a quick gaze, confirming that Mckenzie was still there, safely in the arms of her brother, who, very much to Addie’s surprise, was the exact opposite of the golden-haired prince who was going to rule over her homeland one day. While Joshua seemed kind and open and powerful in a way that was hard to describe, for it wasn’t in his demeanor or his words, Brax was dark, elegant with a smile indicating mischief pinned to his lips. Their eyes the only trait that identified them as siblings.
The black-haired Brenheran heir, however, wasn’t the one dancing with Mckenzie as Addie spotted her on the dance floor. It was the intimidatingly handsome, dark-skinned young man whom Armand had told her was the Prince of Phornes. And from the way Mckenzie danced like a cold fish, Addie knew she would rather punch him in the nose than circle another round with him. But Mckenzie had put on a brave face.
Addie had seen the chancellor step in to dance with Gandrett when Mckenzie had eyed her brother with the plea to save her from Leonidas Aucrosta. Noble of the chancellor to aid the heirs of this house like that. She had wondered back in Eedwood, when she had heard that he’d come to bring back Joshua and Gandrett, what type of man would risk so much for the house he served—what kind of selfless man. The court where she had been enslaved had been one of intrigue and not of support. Even now that Armand had taken on the lordship as the rightful heir of Eedwood, his father was still working against him.
When Armand had pointed Nehelon Sterngrove out to her, surprise wasn’t the only thing that came to mind. He was not how she had imagined a chancellor—not like the chancellor in Eedwood, who had been in his late fifties and, if not of physical strength, of sharp wits. But Nehelon Sterngrove was a warrior through and through. Even if his civilized finery suggested his blood may be nothing less noble than that of any of the lords or ladies attending the party, something told her that body had been honed for battle, not for political charade.
Between the slow-moving pairs, Addie no longer spotted the elegantly dressed chancellors or the Child of Vala who had rescued her from Shygon’s altar—but Mckenzie was still there, monitored by the foreign heirs who seemed to be waiting their turn to appraise the goods before bidding for them.
The nausea grew stronger, and Addie couldn’t help but glimpse at Armand, who had been her anchor in this assembly of finery and manners, of protocols and speeches; who had brushed her fingers with his if only by accident, but … he now was animatedly talking to the Prince of Sives, his attention floating toward her every now and then with a smile that let her guess he had a rhyme on his mind.
This time, she found Joshua eyeing her with interest in his emerald eyes while Armand kept talking.
A cool draft touched her shoulder as if someone had left open the doors in the prison in the north, and Addie shuddered as the memory of the icy caverns beneath Eedwood Castle flashed in her mind. She reached for her water glass with a shaky hand.
No. The caverns no longer existed. She was safe. Joshua was safe. She glanced back to where he had been eyeing her a moment ago—and found Armand raising a glass in her direction as if to cheer.
“You look a bit pale, Addie.” Addie looked up only to find Joshua sitting down beside her, his golden-brown hair catching the fiery tint of the torches that were now the only source of light, his emerald eyes glimmering as he faced her, bracing one elbow on the table, the other on the backrest of the chair he’d chosen. “Are you not well?”
Not well. No. And more than worried about his sister than he seemed to be. She sipped her water and leaned back in her chair, no longer caring if a lady was supposed to sit with her back straight. She wasn’t a lady. And her stomach was killing her. What had been in that dessert?
“It’s been a long day,” was all she said, letting him make of it what he would.
To her surprise, Joshua nodded and smiled as if saying, You have no idea.
He held her gaze as if waiting for her to speak.
“The speech went well,” she said just to fill the silence that seemed to envelop them. “A lot of your guests were pleased to find there is someone worthy of filling the throne.”
He just studied her with eyes that didn’t seem to care who she was, who his guests would think she was. There was something in his gaze that called out for her—her, the same way he had spoken to her in Eedwood without regard for his title or that she had been a slave then. Just Joshua. And Addie. Nothing more.
“Half of the people here are liars, Addie,” he whispered as he leaned closer. “The other half…” He straightened and locked his hands together before his chest, lips pursed as he appeared to be thinking. “Let’s not talk about politics, Addie.” His mouth curved at one side, the tired smile of a man who was struggling to come back from what had been done to him.
“How are you dealing?” Addie asked, and cold filled the air between them as the flicker of light in his eyes guttered at her question.
Addie instantly regretted having asked, having assumed she could ask the Prince of Sives a question like that. Even with everything they had gone through at Eedwood, with what had almost been done to her because of him—
“I’m … I’m sorry,” she whispered and lowered her head, giving him the opportunity of an easy escape if he so wished.
But Joshua clasped his hands more tightly and said, “Never be sorry.” His tone, black velvet, made her look up again, and those eyes bore into hers like pits of darkness. “You never know when your time is up. So no regrets. Not after what you have gone through—” His throat bobbed. “After what we have gone through.”
Brax felt only half-guilty as he left Mckenzie to dance with Taghi Saza Br
ina. The Prince of Phornes, no matter how annoying, was the only one of a culture that respected women enough to not drag his sister off into the secluded corners of the festivities … the way Chancellor Sterngrove had done with Gandrett.
Damn Nyssa and her Solstice if it was another man who got to enjoy that night with Gandrett.
Brax was considering drawing the knife from his boot as he combed through the gardens with less grace and composure than he cared to admit.
He would have stopped them had he noticed that they hadn’t just returned to the tent to take a break from dancing—it was a miracle Gandrett hadn’t stumbled over her own feet or stepped on the chancellor’s with the way the sparkling wine affected her.
He would have put his foot down and insisted she remain with him.
But no. He hadn’t given it another thought when the chancellor had pointed out that Mckenzie needed her twin … and indicated he’d dance with her if Brax preferred to stay with Gandrett.
By Vala, Nehelon Sterngrove hated Gandrett. He had seen them train together, the wild temper that rode the chancellor when they were in the training ring. And when he had ridden out of the Ackwood with her to deliver her to her family, Brax had thought it was a sense of duty to the House Brenheran that he’d made sure the deal with the Order of Vala was executed to a full extent. Never in his wildest dreams would he have considered the chancellor might have any interest in the girl.
Brax rubbed his brows with his thumb and index finger.
Never.
Hadn’t Taghi asked if he was ever going to check on his guest and the intimidating—and considerably handsome—man who had accompanied her off the dance floor to the private tents, he would have not given it another thought.
Wicked Crown (Shattered Kingdom Book 2) Page 22