Page 95 of Disillusioned (A Lay of Ruinous Reign #2)

Anything to keep you here, right here in front of me.

Even if it meant breaking every rule, even if it meant their hierarchy invalidating anything she felt for him. Garin didn’t care about some ancient law that sought to discourage what he felt for her, were he ever forced to become Lilac’s sire.

No force on earth could do that.

When he was close enough to feel the heat of the fire that consumed her, he realized it was blood that ran over her bare breasts, down her legs, dripping between her fingers visible within the flames.

She wasn’t burning, nor was the plant beneath her.

She was…she was laughing . Lilac’s head tipped back, a look of ecstasy etched upon her delicate features, the airy sound of her giggle whooshing out like the embers rising into the night.

Then, there was a shriek. Garin tore his gaze away just in time to see two Morgen lunge out of the water, slither onto the shore, and grab Loumarch by the shoulders. He didn’t struggle, didn’t make a sound as they dragged his frail body toward the lake.

Instead, the old man—the remnants of him—used the last of his energy to call out to Garin once more. “I will find you again, my boy!”

The rest of his words were lost to the lake as they pulled him beneath the surface. His grandfather had no chance, he was already a dead man.

There were more nights than Garin cared to admit where he’d pondered the unthinkable.

That perhaps, a mass grave beneath a bloodstained glade or the watery depths was where he, too, belonged.

He was an abomination, a rudimentary ghoul exhumed from the dirt at the cruel expense of magic—just like Loumarch.

Just like that thing that possessed Hywell.

He was a half-dead creature nipping at the heels of the living .

But tonight, contrary to those ruminations, Garin Austol Trevelyan wanted to live .

The Low Forest rumbled, an echo of death and the indescribable dark power that had driven his father mad. Bubbles appeared where Loumarch and the Morgen had gone down. They moved toward Garin faster than he could possibly swim, waves cresting in their wake.

Those hands grabbed at him again and pulled him under despite his scratching and thrashing. He struggled to climb onto her lily pad, but she didn’t seem to hear him. Water rattled in his chest as Garin pried their brittle hands off his shoulders, his muscles seizing.

He was fatigued. He needed blood. He needed her .

She blinked in surprise and looked down at him, her cerulean eyes scrutinizing and bright. “Garin?” Bewildered, she extended a bloodied, flame-covered hand.

He grabbed it, hoisting himself up with the last of his strength, relief and fear flooding him.

Garin wept at her feet, pressing her palm to his cheek and kissing it front to back.

Much like the faerie fire, it didn’t singe him, instead filling him with the golden warmth of reassurance.

Of safety and—and love. Lilac wound her soft fingers into his hair, her thumb brushing his forehead.

He felt her shift, craning her neck to peer behind.

Garin looked back. The Morgen were gone, the lake just as serene and eerily still as he’d discovered it. They were gone. She’d done it.

Before him, Lilac shone like a torch among violet twilight. She was his deity, and whether she wished him to suffer or worship, punish or be punished, Garin would do it. It was one in the same, as long as he lived to serve her.

She was moving again; this time she bent to his hear. “Garin Trevelyan,” she whispered.

Her voice . It sent tingles down his spine, soothing him against the frigid night. “Yes, Your Majesty. Anything.”

There was a sharp pinch at his shoulder. Her nails dug into him, and not particularly in the way he was fond of. “Control yourself,” she snarled, her mouth brushing his earlobe. “Everyone is watching.”

Everyone .

Warm light flooded his vision, no longer focused on her but throughout the entire room.

They were barely in the Grand Hall doorway, the doors splayed open.

Piper and her handmaidens flanked Lilac, the three of them eyeing him in terror.

The redhead bristled nearest the queen, jaw clenched tight, her hands balled into fists.

He was dry everywhere but inside the front of his pants, and he knew immediately it was not urine.

Lilac had not been rubbing his head; she had one hand braced against his forehead while the other clamped down on his shoulder, shoving him away. His hands were up her skirts, gripping her soft inner thighs, his lips just inches from her mouthwatering?—

Garin pried his fingers off her. He didn’t dare move otherwise or glance behind him. He couldn’t bear to.

There was the clanking of armor, then. Several armed guards had crowded behind the girls, gathering out in the corridor. It sounded like a dozen more waited behind him, as if they’d been summoned in from the courtyard.

Lilac’s voice cracked across the still room like thunder. “Nobody. Touch. Him.”

“Your Majesty.” There was a pair of footsteps skirting across the floor from the front of the room.

Panting, Myrddin was at their side in an instant.

Tucked under his arm was the amber wine bottle.

“It seems it was this wine that made him act. He’d been drinking it at the table, it sat among the gifts.

It is—” He peered at the label. “I can’t tell.

Maybe a fine claret.” Myrddin sniffed at the bottle mouth, then tipped it over his palm.

A faint pink liquid pooled there, which he tongued, then brought to his mouth to slurp.

A round of disgusted groans made its way through the crowd.

“ Mmmm . A claret steeped with mushrooms.”

“How do you know?” someone called out. “About the mushrooms?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” When no one responded, Myrddin rolled his eyes.

But the warlock was right. Those cold sweats, nightmarish hallucinations, were the symptoms of a particular mushroom.

The Amanita muscaria —or, the fly agaric.

Garin was familiar because his father once warned him against putting them in his mouth—both fae-rooted and mortal variations—when he’d laid his foraging goods out on their dining table.

Garin himself had spiked Sinclair’s sacramental wine with the fae-rooted variety just weeks ago .

“The scandal this will cause,” Marguerite slurred. “Is someone out there trying to poison dear Albrecht? I-I mean, my dear daughter?”

“Poison?” Myrddin scoffed. “Unlikely. Not unless they were trying to poison her with temporary reprieve and a wicked good time.”

“I feel fine. More than fine, in fact,” Garin managed, desperately willing Myrddin to shut his mouth. His jaw hurt from clenching his teeth. His shirt was drenched in sweat, and he’d begun to shiver.

“See? It’s often enjoyed recreationally. We warlocks enjoy it from time to time.”

“He needs to see Madame Kemble,” Lilac said. She hadn’t moved from her spot or retreated, her body stiff.

Garin’s mouth went dry. He craned his neck up at her. “No, I do not.”

Lilac’s concerned frown flamed into anger. “Look at yourself and tell me you don’t. You’re not well.”

“Well, you did pour a glass of champagne on my head upon arrival.”

Gasps filled the room. Marguerite began to utter a prayer before Henri shushed her.

Lilac’s eyes narrowed, the sweet pout of her lips tightening.

The room grew hazy as her pulse quickened, the natural aroma of her skin invading Garin’s senses as blood pooled beneath it.

“And you had your hands up my skirt just moments ago. I think we are even. You will be brought to my infirmary. That is an order.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. What was she doing? Why would she want him examined? Garin laughed, trying to downplay his heating temper. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but my fealty is to Maximilian, and him alone.”

Without removing her eyes from him, Lilac reached under her skirts and whipped out her blade. That glistening, inherited dagger.

“Lilac, no!” Henri shouted.

Garin froze amidst the startled shouts from the crowd. There was a flash of silver. He shut his eyes and braced himself for the pain—but the pressure was light.

Lilac’s cool blade came to rest flat on his left shoulder.

“If you hadn’t consumed the wine, I would have,” she said, loud enough for the room to hear. “Thank you for saving me from a most humiliating fate. I hereby grant you knighthood under the Breton crown. My crown. Effective immediately. ”

Gaping, Garin stared up at her. She was mad. Utterly mad.

Henri was suddenly at their side, extending a shaking hand to him.

Reluctantly Garin accepted, allowing the former king to hoist him up. They looked at each other, exchanging bewildered glances before Garin was finally forced to glance at the room.

Behind them, two dozen guards held their weapons at the ready. The dance floor had been mostly cleared; off to the side Rupert was the center of attention, holding his temple. Emma pressed a cloth napkin to her son’s head, chiding him under her breath for getting involved.

“You.” Garin jumped when Lilac stepped to him, her breathing uneven. “Your fealty is now to me so long as you are here.” She nodded to the guards behind him. “Take him to Kemble. Now.”