Page 8 of A Dance of Water (Moon Song #2)

WINTER STORMS

LUELLA

T he doors to the dining room loomed before Luella.

She ran a hand over the skirts of her gown—blue, just as Graves had told her to wear.

Ina and Osa had swept into her rooms shortly after Graves had left. She had heard him, his pacing, the shuffling of his feet across the floor, and the occasional sighs that fell from his lips. And then, nothing. He had left her there alone to stew in what it was he had done.

The space between her thighs was damp, even now.

Luella had rested her back against the wall in the bathing chambers, standing there in nothing but her panties as she let the cool air rush against her skin, the sound of the rain beating down against the castle walls in time with the thud of her heart.

She could still feel Graves’s gloves on her skin, could still see him holding the sheet against his face, could still feel that tingle of awareness between her thighs and slickness on her fingertips.

So, she wore a blue gown today. Blue like the rain. Blue like her mood. Blue like the sky, when it wasn’t covered with clouds.

She had left the chocolates at her bedside and hadn’t touched them; though, she knew Bastian would ask. He always did. And she always deflected. She had gotten good at that in the week it had been since she had awoken.

He wanted her forgiveness, but she just wanted to be left alone…

The doors were not held open by the guards this morning, so she took a moment to collect herself, hands resting against the wood as she steeled herself for what was waiting for her on the other side.

With a soft breath blown from her lips, Luella pushed the doors open.

All sound inside the dining room ceased.

They were all here.

King Vale sat at the head of the table. He did not wear his crown today; Luella had caught him without it more often than not the last few days.

A glass of juice was held halfway to his lips, but he lowered it upon seeing her standing at the entryway to the room.

His throat bobbed with a swallow, and she had to look away from him.

Tharen was at his side, his usual dirtied clothes on, covered with mud and dried flakes of blood.

The mage held a bread roll to his mouth, tearing into it with hunger.

He did not stop as she entered but kept eating, looking up at her with a flash of teeth as he tore away a chunk from the bread and reclined against the back of his seat.

A leg was notched on his thigh, a booted foot shaking with agitation and carefully restrained violent tendencies.

A brow raised as those icy eyes took her in, and then fell lower, as if he was tasting the air before her.

Bastian. The vampire was withdrawn this morning, but that was a common occurrence as of late.

His elegantly groomed, dark brows were drawn low over his red-tinted eyes.

Maybe it was the slight distance between them, but Luella swore the red was more prominent.

Was he feeding regularly? His silky black hair was pulled back at his nape with a thin tie, but a few errant strands fell over his forehead, framing his pale and regal features with darkness.

She was suddenly taken to another time and another place. With another male with different but similar hair.

Luella broke the vampire’s stare. She tried not to soften at the fact that he looked like a pup as he watched her, eyes growing wide as soon as she stepped through the doors, as though his whole existence hinged on her.

She did not look at Graves.

And Az was…

Thunder boomed outside.

"Luella," King Vale greeted. He stood and strode toward her, forcing her neck to crane as his long legs ate up the distance between them. "Come, sit." He took her elbow and guided her by the arm to her chair—right next to him, a place of honor.

She shivered from his proximity. Burning embers and cedar soothed her inward turmoil like a balm. His touch only made her burn hotter.

"Good morning, King Vale," she murmured in reply, taking her seat primly as she tucked her skirts under her, resting her palms in her lap.

Graves was right across from her. She could feel his eyes scorching the crown of her head.

"What have we discussed?" The dragon shifter tsked as he scooted her chair in for her, reclaiming his seat at the head of the table.

"Yes, I know."

He was speaking of his desire for her to call him by his name, without titles.

A golden blonde brow arched as he watched her, the whole room held its breath, watching the King and the Princess and their usual dance of willful pride.

The tension in the room was disrupted by Tharen’s loud, unseemly snort. "Fuck, you lot are as fun as an orgy in Nox."

Luella’s cheeks grew red, and she could not stop herself from stuttering out a strangled, "W-what?"

"I should know, though. Orgies can be fun, just not in the snow." Tharen resumed eating his bread roll. "Take my word for it," he mumbled around a mouthful of bread.

It should have been entirely off-putting, but it was a youthful act, and Luella tried desperately not to smile. The patter of the rain lessened ever so slightly.

Bastian, wide-eyed and following after her every movement like a pup that had imprinted, slid a piece of toast with jam over to her, where he sat at her other side.

She was nestled between him and the King—one side warm, the other cool.

The vampire’s breaths were warm, however, and they fluttered the white hair at her nape as he leaned forward, inhaling her scent.

"You smell nice," Bastian whispered into her hair, so low, just for the two of them. But the others were watching and listening, like always. She no longer had the right to privacy. They were stifling. The vampire tucked a piece of her curls behind her arched ear. "Did you get my present?"

She nodded, ignoring the toast he had given her as she reached for the platter at the center of the table.

The usual tower held many various pastries—sugar-crusted, fruit-topped, and stuffed pieces of bread, sweet and savory.

A few fat and thick pieces of browned toast, hard like crust, topped with melted cheeses and sprigs of rosemary and thyme.

A whole platter of sweet rolls, some small and some large, but all baked to melt in mouths.

Her hand hovered in the air as she thought of what she wanted, but the decision was taken from her when Tharen reached across the table and wrapped his fingers around her wrist. He encompassed her whole wrist, and she shuddered from his touch, the call growing louder.

He nudged her hand toward the top of the tower, the smallest section, where gleaming, ripe strawberries were bundled together next to a bowl of cream.

"Try this," the mage said.

"I’m not in the mood for b-berries," she stammered, trying to jerk her hand away, but the mage’s grip was unrelenting, and he only held her tighter, taking one of her fingers out from where they were curled into her palm. She hissed as he stretched it and forced her to dip a finger into the bowl.

Her finger melted into the pillowy, thick cream, and Tharen pulled her hand back from it, smug, as he tugged her to him by his grip on her wrist. She stretched, nearly toppling out of her chair, but Bastian at her side settled her with a cool palm against her waist, keeping her from falling forward onto the table.

Tharen licked his lips and brought her hand to his mouth. She eyed him with anticipatory fear, still attempting to tug her arm away.

"Enough!" the King bellowed.

Tharen released her arm with a smirk as he held up his palms before him. "Can you blame me, Vale?" he practically sang the taunt.

Luella huffed and sat back in her chair, wiping her cream-topped finger on a linen napkin before her, then smoothing her hands over the invisible wrinkles on her gown. She was ruffled and trembling, but did not want him to know.

"This is why all of us cannot be in the same room for long," Bastian sighed. With his hand still on her waist, he tugged her into his side, and she jolted—the small zap that rang out between them was like little sparks.

Lightning crackled outside.

She tried to distract herself as she fiddled with her gown. All while the inside of her was roiling with fear and the desire to get out of her chair and crawl into the mage’s lap, lean into Bastian’s side, and hook her leg over his thigh, wrap her arms around his neck, and hug him tightly.

Bergamot clouded her judgment, and she pressed her palms to his firm, cool chest, moving herself away from his side and back into the small bit of safety in her chair.

She straightened out her sleeves, smoothing her palms over the arms, which were fluttery and wide, billowing out as they fell to her wrists.

The very end of the thick material of the blue gown had dipped into the jam on top of the toast Bastian had given her, marring the pristine blue with a dot of dark red.

Like blood. She rubbed it away with the pad of her thumb, only making the stain look worse, turning it into a streaky, scarlet smudge.

Luella looked up then, catching Graves’s eyes where he had not stopped staring at her.

It was just the five of them in the dining room, and he did not wear his cowl or his hood.

He swirled a glass of dark juice in his hand, bringing it up to his lips as he drank deeply, still without breaking eye contact. She shuddered and looked away.

It was taking everything in her not to melt into all of them. The call between them was a roaring song in her soul, but one thread was louder than the others—one that stretched below the castle into the darkness of the dungeons where she knew a certain soft-hearted demon lay.