Page 10 of The Crimson Princess (The Ravengale Chronicles #1)

Chapter eight

“ P rincess,” lingers on Toren’s lips, velvet on his tongue, with the slightest of accent to his speech I cannot place.

I’m more than a little enveloped in his presence, and I discreetly shake myself and force a formal reply.

“Thank you, King Toren,” I reply, as first names are always appropriate in Ravengale.

His brows lift at my formal acknowledgement that we both know my father won’t approve of, but I’ve chosen out of the respect I believe he deserves.

He is a part of our history, the vampire king who chose diplomacy over war with our people while his now-departed father wanted war, and from what I’ve heard, his twin brother, Ruhn, was right there by his father’s side, demanding war and domination.

It’s been in our best interest that Toren, born one minute the senior to Ruhn, and therefore the rightful king, is in control of his world.

My father grunts next to me, his disapproval obvious, though he saves his wrath for later, focusing on the vampire king. “I’d offer you a drink, Toren, but I’m afraid we don’t stock blood.”

Toren’s ancient stare lingers on me, his amusement at my father’s jibe cutting through the shared moment.

He dips his chin at me in a barely perceivable acknowledgement before he seems to tear his gaze from mine and return his attention to my father.

“A pity on the blood,” Toren replies, “but I do enjoy the famous Ravengale whiskey. I do believe it would serve us both to sit and chat. ”

My father strums his fingers on the arm of his throne, his energy pure agitation. “And why is that?”

“As poorly timed as it is,” Toren explains, “we have a serious matter to discuss, I believe to be urgent. And I’m certain you know I wouldn’t use that description lightly, nor would I intrude on your Tribute with the matters of the throne unless I felt it unavoidable.”

My father stares at King Toren, seemingly weighing his statement, before waving a hand toward Andreas. “Have the staff prepare my study.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Andreas replies, quickly backing away and disappearing out of our view, and my father redirects his attention back to Toren. “Happy?”

Toren appears unimpressed. “We’ll have privacy?”

“Complete,” my father assures him, standing. I follow, unsure of my role in this meeting.

As if reading my mind, Toren glances at me and then my father. “Will the future queen be joining us? I do believe this problem may extend to her rule.”

“Wishing me dead, Toren?” my father asks dryly.

“Death finds us all, Killian, no matter how immortal the world might think us. Will the princess be joining us?” he repeats, a tug of his magic waving my direction.

I’m aware of this vampire king in ways that some might call dangerous. I’m certain my father would not be pleased.

“She will,” my father replies, “but if she’s smart, she’ll call you Toren, not King Toren. You are not her king.”

“But I am a king,” Toren replies, not missing a beat, “and it is mutual respect that is needed between allies.”

“We aren’t allies,” my father states. “Until the vampires submit to the rule of Ravengale, we will never be allies.”

“I certainly hope you reconsider that position,” Toren replies, “for the safety of your people.”

I bristle and dare to overstep my role with two kings present, issuing Toren a challenge. “Is that a threat? ”

His eyes, those incredible blue eyes, land heavily on me. “You’d know if I threatened you, princess,” he says, and somehow those words are as darkly seductive as they are lethal.

Idris and two of our most decorated warriors appear behind my father, and if their appearance is meant to be a sign of strength, or more likely intimidation, it fails.

They reek of nervous energy, and Toren doesn’t so much as smirk at their presence, as if they aren’t worth a reaction.

That is, until my father says, “My men will escort us to the meeting space,” and motions Toren to follow them, an action that would force Toren to offer my father his back, an action of submission between warriors.

It might as well be a cat offering up his belly to the alpha.

There’s a bristle of Toren’s magic that prickles along my skin, and I do not think my father’s power play sits well with him. I walk down the steps, leaving the pedestal where our thrones sit behind me, to join Toren, my back presented to my father and our men. “I’ll be your guide,” I offer.

Toren’s expression is unaffected, any surprise he might feel at my action carefully schooled, but his voice is low and warm with appreciation. “A true princess.”

I can feel the eyes of my people resting heavily on my back, their attention burning me with contempt, but I do not risk a reaction. My focus remains on the vampire who I know to be lethal in oh so many ways.

“I’m learning,” I reply. “I’ve spent more time away from this place than present the past ten years.”

“You’ve learned well,” he assures me, offering me his arm.

I shiver inside at the idea of touching him, but I cannot refuse, nor do I seem to want any such thing.

I’m drawn to Toren in some deep female way that is most likely far more dangerous than any day I’ve spent guarding the portal.

Even knowing this, I swallow deeply and settle my hand on his upper arm.

Warmth seeps through the silk barrier of his suit jacket and burns down my arm, and my lashes lower in an effort to disguise the reaction from him and our onlookers.

I will not allow the vampire king to know his world-famous power of seduction has worked on the princess of Ravengale.

Somehow, though, I look at him, and my magic flutters about inside me as if I were a young girl with no control, and I do not know what about him creates such a reaction in me.

He feels it, too. I see it in the dilation of his eyes, and this is more information than I wish Toren to possess, but I comfort myself in the knowledge that it’s expected.

He knows all too well the reactions he creates in others.

I rotate forward, and my gaze punches into Idris’s.

“This way,” I instruct, though commands do not slide easily nor comfortably from me.

I’ve been at the portal, fighting, bloody and beaten, not in the palace, acting my role of princess, but this one flows easily enough this day, as I add, “You can follow us.”

Idris glances at my father, who inclines his chin, his expression now as unreadable as Toren’s, but I have no doubt I will feel his wrath this very eve. Idris offers me a small bow. “Yes, princess.”

I step forward, and with Toren as my willing guest, we walk around the thrones and to the rear of the room. Toren leans in close. “You do know a warrior never places his enemy at his rear, correct?”

“We’re not your enemies,” I say, daring a look at him and adding, “not yet. I hope never. And you’re too powerful for it to matter anyway.”

There’s a tilt of his chin, an indication of curiosity. “And you know this, how?”

“I can feel your power,” I admit, exposing some of my own magic to him but as magic knows magic, my mother often said trust breeds trust.

Interest piques in his expression. “Can you now?”

“I can, but why don’t we make that our little secret?”

He studies me a heavy beat and says, “I’d be honored to share a secret with the future queen of Ravengale.”

For reasons I can’t explain, I believe him. My mother warned me of him, but at the same time expressed admiration for him as well. She believed it was Toren, not my father, who forced the peace between our lands, but I was never to repeat this to anyone.

I guide Toren left and then down a set of stairs. Once we’re in the hallway, the remaining path is a short distance.

We reach the grand, towering gold entryway to my father’s study, and Andreas is already there waiting on us.

He opens the door, a real task with the considerable weight of the gold, but he is tall and fit, well-practiced at his task.

He’s cleared our way in no time, and I guide Toren inside an ornate room that even I, the princess who grew up in the castle, finds truly spectacular.

The walls curving into half circles, many of which are lined with ancient books of magical spells and tales of our ancestors.

The ceiling towers high, a dome above us decorated with the most beautiful art of the now extinct dragons that once lived in our lands.

There’s a stone desk in the center of the room and seating areas on either side, where I expect my father to step behind, to claim a role of authority.

He surprises me and motions toward the three leather chairs positioned around a smaller table and sitting in front of a crackling fire that is rather grandiose considering the warmness of the season.

My father, of course, still pulls rank, claiming the center seat, while he dictates me to his left and Toren is to his right.

One of the staff, who I do not know, fills our glasses with whiskey, though I wave off my pour.

“You don’t drink, princess?” Toren asks.

He’s directly across from me, those piercing eyes as sharp as perfect diamonds and fixed on me as if my answer truly matters when we both know it does not. But I make it matter. I make it about the control a future queen should always possess. “I prefer to retain my faculties.”

“Vampires don’t have that concern,” my father informs me dryly. “They can’t get drunk.”

“We can get drunk,” Toren corrects, “but not on alcohol.”

I swallow with a fair amount of difficulty, certain I know where this is headed and unwilling to shy away from what might well be seen as a reason to fear Toren. “Blood?” I ask .

He tilts his chin in confirmation. “It’s no longer a requirement for survival, but it’s a delicacy we enjoy.”