Page 62 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter forty-eight

They swept him toward the council room like an ocean tide. Cyrus let himself be pulled into the chamber, where Everan, Kord, and Brant had also made it.

“I’m surprised that with you now wed, you didn’t bring her back with you,” Verin said.

“Wed?” Cyrus stopped abruptly. “Oh, I didn’t marry her. Morak’s dead. In fact, that’s why I stayed so long, to see her properly set up. But we’re… not wed. Nor will we be.”

The councilmen all paused, their brows dipping and their mouths open.

And Cyrus set to explaining. It was well into evening by the time he’d recounted everything that had happened, from the awkward arrival, to finding out about Morak, to the agreement he’d made with Miriel for rice and his plan to help her and Pryam.

He left out her advances—desperation should be private.

The council was happy to hear of the rice shipments, but they weren’t happy about Cyrus’s promise of men and protection or about Pryam’s expulsion from the Union.

Lomas, his master of public works, sighed. “We haven’t even fortified Rael and we’re already committing ourselves to another kingdom that has its own troubles.”

“But is that not what an alliance is?” Cyrus argued. “Is it not what I would have done under a marriage arrangement?”

“Well without a marriage, it’s a shaky alliance at best.”

“So, what are you upset about?” Cyrus challenged. “That I committed us to another kingdom or that I haven’t committed us enough?”

“Fair, Sire,” Lomas said, “but we’re just reacting to the news. We were under the impression that Pryam was in a different circumstance. Now we’re committed to a kingdom who can’t come to our aid when we need it.”

Cyrus folded his arms. “What do you think supplying food is? That’s the greatest aid we need right now.”

Verin nodded. “Very true,” he admitted. He looked around at the other councilmen.

“We should consider this a successful venture. We’ve built an alliance of friendship with Pryam, bolstering our provisions and helping feed our people, and we’re still in position to secure alliances with other kingdoms.”

“Speaking of other alliances…” Fatim pulled a letter from his robe pocket and held it for Cyrus.

Cyrus immediately recognized the king of Japheth’s green seal. He almost rolled his eyes. This man again. Cyrus hadn’t responded to his previous letter. A man of pride wouldn’t have pursued him.

“He’s said to have a beautiful niece,” Fatim said.

“Is that all you ever observe about potential marriage prospects?” Ruth cut in.

Fatim quieted.

Cyrus snorted. His magistrate didn’t speak often, but when she did, Cyrus loved it. “A niece, huh?” he questioned. “Of the man who killed one brother and is at war with the other?”

“A niece on his wife’s side,” Verin said.

This time, Cyrus did roll his eyes. “Has Pryam not shown you that I’m not motivated by marriage? It’s merely a means to an end.”

“Sire, Japheth is not a kingdom to be ignored. At least read it.”

Cyrus took the letter, breaking the seal, and skimmed the words.

King Cyrus,

I know the initial weight of the crown is both overwhelming and all-consuming of one’s precious time, both night and day.

Cyrus wasn’t sure if that was an underhanded jab or if Gregor was offering an excuse for his lack of response in effort to continue to pursue talk between them.

I’m unsure if my previous letter reached your hands.

A lie.

If it did, it grieves me to think my previous missive may have failed to capture the full extent of my admiration and respect for all that you have accomplished in Rael. Your reputation now precedes you and casts a luminous glow on what I’m sure will be a long and prosperous reign.

It wasn’t a jab earlier, Cyrus realized, but a willful overlook and complete forgiveness of Cyrus’s slight. Perhaps Gregor needed this alliance more than he did.

If, by misfortune, my letter did not reach you, let me reiterate the profound honor a potential friendship between our two kingdoms would be. Your Majesty would bring unparalleled insights and perspectives, which will, without question, serve to enlighten our shared path forward.

More flattery. Cyrus skipped to the bottom.

I would happily pay a visit to Rael, which I’m sure, under your sovereignty, has become even more glorious than when I last visited.

Cyrus glanced out the window at the toppled administrative offices that had been destroyed during the rebellion. They’d fix those. Eventually. He looked back at the letter.

I eagerly await your reply.

Signed, Gregor the Lion, king of Japheth, king of Hetahl…

Cyrus tossed the letter onto the table for his councilmen to read. “This man reeks of desperation.”

“Rich desperation,” Verin added. “Do you know how much money Japheth has?”

He didn’t. Nor did he particularly care. Something didn’t feel right about Gregor, and Cyrus wanted no part of him.

“Cyrus,” Everan said, “this is how you break the Shadow King’s alliance. It’s not about what you stand to gain here. It’s about what the Shadow King stands to lose—what you can take from him.”

Cyrus’s lips tightened. It did annoy him how often Everan was right sometimes. “Fine. Write this: King Gregor. I appreciate your offer of friendship. ”

Verin scribbled the words quickly, pausing when he finished, then stared up at him. “Is that all?”

Cyrus’s eyes traveled the table to see all the councilmen looking at him, expecting more. He sighed. “Add: I’ll consider it. ”

Verin’s mouth formed as though to speak, but he remained silent.

Fatim cut in. “Sire, might I suggest something a little more approachable and amicable to meeting?”

Cyrus could read the room. He waved a dismissive hand as he stood. “Everan, work with him on something better. Make it sound like something I would say.”

The corner of Everan’s mouth hinted at a smile. “I think the key is to make it not sound like something you would say.”

Small gusts of wind broke the heat, although any reprieve was erased by the abrasive sand they carried.

The sun sat low on the horizon, and Cyrus prayed it would hurry and dip below.

After three weeks gone, he’d almost forgotten how hot this forsaken kingdom could get.

But he wasn’t thinking about the heat now.

He’d spotted Essandra in the sparring field, practicing sword work with her guardsman, Aaron.

It was a surprise that had brought a smile to his face.

He’d wanted her to learn the sword, but she’d been adamantly against it.

He didn’t like that she relied purely on magic—he didn’t trust magic, but he did trust a blade, and he was pleased to finally see her using one.

And by the looks of it, this wasn’t her first lesson.

He was glad he’d found her, though. They hadn’t had an opportunity to catch up. And he was curious if there were any further developments with the assassins.

As he approached, Essandra broke from her spar, and both she and Aaron paused. It felt like a lifetime since Cyrus had used his sword. Really used it. He pulled the blade from his back scabbard and gave her a mischievous smile.

Essandra didn’t smile back. He nodded at Aaron, who bowed to let Cyrus take over. Cyrus contemplated whether he should ask if he could impose but then decided if she really didn’t want him here, she’d let him know pretty quickly.

He stepped forward with an easy swing, testing her, and she stepped back.

Her eyes narrowed. Then, she moved forward, cutting in with her sword. He mildly swung a counterstrike and stepped out.

“Is that all you have?” he teased.

Her face was hard. Was she still angry? Had his apology not settled her even slightly?

She tightened her hand around the hilt of her sword, and her lips thinned. She was no match for him with a blade, but he wasn’t trying to beat her.

They circled for a moment, each waiting for the other.

Her eyes sized him up. Then she lunged forward, not holding her attack.

He fought defensively as she took ground—she actually fought pretty well, but she still had a lot to learn.

He pivoted with a series of offensive counters, now pushing her back.

The flurry of their weapons sliced through the morning air.

He pushed her back farther, but as they almost reached the railing, he eased off, offering her a breath.

Cyrus smiled, but she only reciprocated an icy gaze.

She was still angry.

Essandra held her sword in front of her and brought her other hand up to its hilt, then she pulled a second blade from it—turning one sword into two.

Now that was a trick he needed to learn.

She attacked. She swept the two swords in unison, trying to take ground back with a fury. He could feel her anger, the heat radiating off her. It made her sloppy. He easily parried, thwarting her strikes.

He couldn’t help a laugh.

But she wasn’t laughing. She hit him with a burst of power, almost dropping him to the ground, and launched a full-fledged attack.

A real attack.

His body switched to defense. He met one blade with a force that almost knocked it from her hand, but her second blade sliced upward from below and skimmed his face, splitting open his left cheek and narrowly missing his eye.

Cyrus stumbled back in surprise. He reached up to touch his cheek and pulled his hand away dripping with blood.

His nostrils flared, his smile gone. Her eyes blazed back at him.

He wasn’t sure if she’d intended to do that, although she didn’t seem to have intended not to. What was wrong with this woman?

Essandra stood, her chest heaving, her hair wild in the wind around her. She shoved both swords into Aaron’s hands, apparently finished now, and whirled back toward the palace.

“Essandra!” Cyrus called after her.

Of course she didn’t wait.

He flung his own blade, lancing it into the ground, and stormed after her. “Essandra!”

She still didn’t stop.

He quickened his stride and caught up to her just as she stepped inside the palace. “Essandra!” He grabbed her arm and stopped her to face him.

She shoved him back. “Get off me!”

“I said I was sorry!”

“Well, it’s not my job to make you feel better about your failings anymore, it’s Miriel’s!”

He stopped abruptly. Miriel’s? His brow dropped. “Why would it be Miriel’s?”

She turned away from him and fixed her gaze out the window of the small sitting room they’d nearly overturned.

“Why would you say it’s Miriel’s?” he asked again, softer this time, as he stepped closer.

“She’s your wife now,” she said shortly.

“My wife?” He shook his head. “I didn’t marry Miriel.”

Her head snapped back to him as her eyes locked with his, and she stared at him for a moment. Her lips parted. “You didn’t?”

“I told you; she’s a child. I saw to her coronation. I helped—”

He stopped. He hadn’t told her; he’d told his council. And Essandra hadn’t been there. “Wait, are you angry because you thought I married her?”

She scoffed. “Of course not.” She swallowed.

“But that’s what I went to do, or at least to discuss.”

“I know, and I said I wasn’t.”

She was angry, though. It was written all over her face, all over her body. On the lips he wanted to kiss, in the hair he wanted to touch. All over her flamed a fire that threatened to burn him.

And damned if he wouldn’t let her.

Cyrus found himself being shoved backward into a chair.

Essandra clawed at his belt as she climbed on top of him and straddled him.

He wasn’t exactly sure what was happening, but he didn’t stop her.

Did she want to hurt him? Was she trying to take him?

When she pulled his cock free from his leathers and sank down onto him, he was beyond asking.

He didn’t care—whatever this woman wanted, she could have it.

She took him deep, shifting to angle him how she needed him. His hips rolled to meet her, but she tightened her hold, pinning him. She had more control over his body than he did.

Her skin burned like fire. He pushed his hands up her thighs under her dress but then stopped. Even in the thick of the chaos of her, he knew the rules. He simply let his head fall back as she settled into her rhythm.

Slow and deep, she took him, rubbing herself against him with each drop downward. Everything about her drove him closer to the edge—the look of her, the smell of her, the feel of her. The sound of her breaths. His mouth hungered for her, and it was all he could do not to devour her.

Her body blazed hotter. She clasped his shoulders and rocked faster. Cyrus struggled for control, trying not to lose himself. Sweat beaded them both. He wanted to lick it from her skin.

Harder still, she ground into him. She dropped her head, their cheeks touching, her mouth so close to his. The warmth of her breaths dusted his ear. He couldn’t help himself, and he turned, needing her kiss.

But she clasped his jaw, keeping him. The bond snapped into place as his blood on his face touched her skin, but she didn’t allow him inside her mind.

She denied him. She denied him everything.

She held her lips over his, not touching, allowing him nothing.

Only taking more from him, and more, and more.

Until she shattered.

She tightened around him, arching her back and gripping him between her thighs, pulsing and shaking. Then she stilled, gasping in release.

Two more thrusts and he’d join her.

But she pulled herself from him and stood.

Cyrus jerked his head up. “Wait,” he panted. A stitch cramped his brow. “Are you leaving? Where are you—”

“You should know that I freed the assassins,” she said, still breathless as she reached under her skirts, fixing her undergarments before smoothing out her dress.

He gaped up at her, his mind in a fog, his chest still heaving. “What?”

“And sorry about your face,” she added shortly. With that, she turned and left him.

Cyrus stared at the empty doorway she’d disappeared through, his leathers still open, his body still begging for her.

This woman. This woman was going to be the death of him.