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Ancestors above, if this was how he smelled, how would he taste?

Arran paused, tipping back his head to look at me.

I opened my eyes hesitantly. Some part of me worried that if I did, all of this would end.

“Because I understand, Veyka,” Arran said softly, slowly pulling his hand away from my pussy.

I had just enough pride to keep from clenching my legs together in a desperate attempt to keep him there. I slid my hands from his hair, letting them rest on his shoulders as he drew his mouth away from my breasts and lowered me to the floor, looking down at me.

His words were soft. Like the promise of a lover… but the threat of death.

“You are hiding something, Veyka. I will find out what it is. Even if it means taking you to the edge of pleasure, until you are wet and hot and willing to give me anything. Then, you will tell me, Princess.”

I shoved him backward as hard as I could.

He did not stumble. Because of course, he did not. Whether I admitted it—and I certainly would not be—he’d won this duel as well.

He smirked as he rolled his shoulders, loosening himself up after a battle well fought and won.

“Find yourself some new sheets,” he said, glancing back at the bed.

My anger flared in time with the flames in the hearth, which had so thoroughly consumed my coverlet and sheets. My knives were in their scabbards on the other side of the bed. So I swiped up a beautifully wrought clay pot off the nearest table and threw it at his head.

My aim was excellent.

But he was too fast.

He chuckled again, and damn him, but all I could think of was how that warm chuckle had felt against my tortured flesh.

“See that no other male spoils them,” he added as he continued toward the door. “From now on, the only male in your bed is me.”

“What about a female?” I asked flippantly.

Arran’s eyes darkened, the corner of his mouth lifting. It might have been the first genuine smile he’d ever given me.

“Perhaps someday, Veyka, we shall invite another female to our bed. But not until I have charted every crevice of your body to my satisfaction.”

The second pot hit the center of his back. But the bastard acted as if he hadn’t felt it at all.

31

ARRAN

She was very adept at sneaking out, I had to give her that.

I’d been sleeping outside of her door for weeks on the same bedroll I’d traveled with for the last hundred years or so. Tiles weren’t the most comfortable bed I’d ever had, but they were far from the worst.

In that time, I’d come to recognize the sounds of her handmaidens. The younger two, Charis and Carly, were always jabbering—until I entered the room. That was fine; the less female drama I had to contend with, the better. The Ancestors knew that Veyka created more than her fair share for someone only twenty-five years old.

The best part of their constant talk was that they made it easy to track activity in the room. Their elder sister, the senior handmaiden, was much more circumspect in her interactions. She was the voice of reason. Often, the only way I knew she was in the room was by the shuffling of her wings.

Veyka was near silent, even when she wasn’t actively trying to sneak out.

Why?

She’d been raised in seclusion, I knew that much from listening to casual court conversation. Uther and Igraine only trotted her out for important state occasions and festivals. Until Uther had died and her brother Arthur assumed the elemental crown—then she had become a fixture at court. She took over these lodgings, was often seen sparring in the training courtyard, and frequently walked through the winding courtyards arm in arm with her brother.

Not a single part of that simple history told me why she snuck out of the goldstone palace. Nor did it speak to her skill at doing so.