Page 16 of A Frozen Pyre (Villains #2)

Ten

Silk sheets. An arm draped over the warm, feminine shape of a lover.

Slitted gray beams of morning light. Ophir’s first thought was one of comfort.

Her second was to remember that happiness was an illusion when the world was ending.

Sleep was her only true reprieve. She couldn’t figure out what had woken her until the rhythmic rapping started up again.

“Princess Ophir?” came a muffled call from beyond the door.

Dwyn groaned. “I thought they were going to leave you be. What is this waking up at dawn’s first light bullshit?”

Ophir wiped her eyes. She often stirred awake in the gray light of morning just as Tyr slipped out of bed.

He had not shared her room that night, and as a result, she’d slept much later than she’d intended.

She cracked open the curtains only to see that it was not, in fact, dawn.

Given the bright, cheery light, it was safe to guess that they’d already slept in until after the morning’s tenth bell.

She looked at Dwyn’s mussy-haired shape where the fae remained half-buried in the sheets.

“I think it’s about the summit,” she said. “The guests are set to begin arriving. I knew we couldn’t avoid it for much longer.”

Dwyn sat up. “Oh, good. Your parents like me.”

Ophir frowned. “They liked you before you aided and abetted my criminal escapades.”

Dwyn’s lower lip jutted out. The knocking continued.

“Princess Ophir, I’m going to open the door now, okay?”

Ophir barely had time to shrug into her robe before a pair of attendants let themselves into the room.

The woman sighed at Dwyn’s indecent form.

The attendants didn’t care that Dwyn and Ophir were women.

They didn’t even care that they were sleeping together on the eve of Ophir’s betrothal to the king.

They did, however, seem to find it endlessly tiring that Dwyn couldn’t be bothered to put on a stitch of clothing in anyone’s presence unless coerced through threat of force.

The first woman drew a bath while the other shooed Dwyn out of the bed and began to fix the sheets. Dwyn crawled back onto the bed the moment the comforter had been tucked neatly into place. The attendant ignored her, picking out clothes for each of the girls.

“What time will the guests arrive?” Ophir asked.

“Everyone’s here,” the woman answered.

Her jaw dropped. “What?”

“The royal party from Farehold arrived yesterday, and Queen Zita and her retinue were at the bridge to the castle just as the sun rose. They’ve all been given a chance to recuperate from the road, but everyone is eager to meet. You’ll be expected this afternoon.”

“But it’s only been a few days since the banquet…”

“It’s been eight days, Your Highness.”

Ophir gnawed her lip at that, marveling at how easy it was to lose track of time when nothing mattered and you didn’t care about anything.

Whenever she attempted to contemplate the motives that brought her to this place in earnest, she developed yet another thumping pain in her temples.

At first, she’d written them off as inopportune headaches.

Now, anytime a renewed migraine bloomed between her ears, caution brought her to stare at Dwyn, whether she intended to or not.

She couldn’t explain her wariness, but at this pace, she put nothing past the siren and her powers.

Ophir spent her time either in bed with Dwyn or making excuses for alone time in the late-autumn gardens so that Dwyn wouldn’t be suspicious when she stole away with Tyr.

He always caught her up on vital information regarding the castle.

He often held her hand, or brushed hair away from her face.

Sometimes he’d pin her against the dark, icy wall in a shadowy corner and hike her skirt up over her ass as he took her hips in his hands, waiting for the sweat of their entanglement to heat her.

All things considered, her sex life had never been better.

“Dwyn is coming,” Ophir said quickly to the attendant.

The woman made a tired face and said, “Yes, we’ve expected as much. You’ve really shoved your lover down the court’s throat, you know. You could try a little decorum. We’ll have lunch sent to your room, but someone will be back around three to fetch you. Please don’t be indisposed.”

The attendant said the final word with heavy implication.

Ophir was stunned to have been spoken to in such a way. Dwyn’s hand flew to her mouth as she failed to stifle her laugh. The attendants left the room before Ophir had a chance to collect herself.

“Oh my goddess.” Ophir blinked as the door shut.

“I would love to have that woman’s gonads.”

Ophir rolled her eyes as she approached the dress they’d laid out. “Dwyn, you have bigger balls than anyone I’ve ever met. You don’t give two shits about anything.”

Dwyn smiled as she peered at their clothing choices. “I am quite bold, aren’t I? But you’re wrong. I give at least one shit.”

“Oh?”

Dwyn smiled at her sweetly, and Ophir flipped her a vulgar finger. Their means of flirtation had never been predisposed to gentleness.

After Ophir had bathed and dressed, it was time to eat.

Much to her surprise, Evander, Ceneth’s primary advisor, popped by her personal chambers while her lunch was being delivered.

He offered a three-minute briefing on what was to be expected, bowed uncomfortably, and departed.

His visit was so short, Dwyn had missed the entire thing simply for washing her face in the adjoining bathing room.

After the food was digested, the plates were cleared, and the hours ticked by, the time had come.

They slipped from the room and began their trek down the hall.

“Is Ceneth escorting you in?” Dwyn asked. “Or do we get to enter together?”

Ophir shook her head. “He’ll already be in the room.

I’m expected to sit at the table halfway between Raascot and Farehold.

I’m neither at my father’s side nor at my fiancé’s.

” She said the word bitterly. “He’ll be accompanied by Evander and Onain.

At least, so I’ve been told. I informed him that I was bringing you with me, and he didn’t seem to take issue with it. ”

Warm daylight spilled through the windowed corridors and lit Dwyn’s smile as they walked. “I’m liking him more every day.”

Ophir shrugged. “I think he’s resigned to your presence. We arrived as a unit. There isn’t a monarch, past or present, who hasn’t had the luxury of appointing advisors.”

Dwyn’s eyes twinkled with what was unmistakably pride as she said, “Look how far you’ve come, Firi. From a drowned ocean rat to the one uniting the kingdoms.”

Ophir extended her hand and took Dwyn’s with a sincere squeeze. “You did this, you know.”

Dwyn scoffed. “I did, didn’t I?”

Ophir rolled her eyes and tried to release her hand. “Oh my goddess, your humility is staggering. This was supposed to be a sweet moment!”

There was no further delaying it.

The summit would commence whether they were ready or not.

They dropped hands as the servant opened the door to allow Ophir and her guest to enter. They were the last to arrive.

Ceneth stood when she entered, and he didn’t settle into his chair at the head of the table until she’d taken her seat. Normally, she’d think that it was an empty gesture fitting for the betrothed, but with Ceneth, she wasn’t so sure. The man was kind, which pained her all the more.

The Raascot fae—winged and otherwise—copied their king’s movements. They ceased their conversations and stood politely until their ruler returned to his high-backed chair.

The side farthest from the door had been allocated to Farehold.

Ophir felt some small hurt that her father hadn’t risen to greet her.

He couldn’t even be bothered to echo her husband-to-be’s perfunctory manners.

Harland was at King Eero’s side, though he’d stopped speaking the moment she walked in, accompanied by Samael and a woman she didn’t recognize.

Ophir wasn’t sure whether she’d fully earned the vitriol in Harland’s once-loving eyes, but chances were that, yes, she deserved all his hate and more.

She wished he were still the man who wanted to share drinks with her on the wall.

She wished he was her friend, her confidant, her ally.

He’d lost the right to those titles the day he’d trapped her in her room, intent on shipping her off to marry Ceneth.

In the end, they’d both gambled and lost. She’d ended up engaged and in Gwydir, and he’d watched her slip between his fingers until she was no longer someone he recognized.

She waited until she was in her seat to dip her head in polite acknowledgment of the royal party from Tarkhany.

Gilded trays of fresh fruits and pitchers of hot tea, wine, and water separated her and the Queen of the Desert.

Zita chatted with Ceneth’s stiff-backed advisor—a woman Ophir knew to be Onain—close to the door.

She broke conversation long enough to offer Ophir the greeting her father had neglected to.

“Princess Ophir.” Zita gave a light bow, dipping her chin in a true, slow apology. “I want you to know that those responsible for the banquet have been dealt with swiftly and without mercy.”

Ophir swallowed, unsure of how to respond.

The smell of roses was as distant as the perfume of a dream upon waking.

She saw the lavender of dawn, the dark flash of wings, the fluttering eyelashes as Dwyn wilted before her eyes.

The events of that morning were a brand of chaos she’d tried to forget.

Conflicting truths formed the early warnings of a pulsing headache before she tore her thoughts away.

Tyr must have been nearby and sensed her spike in blood pressure, for his hand began to move in slow, comforting circles against her back. He was always careful to keep his touches light and noiseless. She knew he’d spent centuries perfecting the craft of remaining undetected.

Unable to speak, she supplied a weak smile.