Page 34 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Her eyes roll. But she blushes.

Without another word, she sets off into the market, dragging me by the hand.

We pass more stalls, and I’m glad Alyth’s taking the lead and keeping us moving, because I’d just stand and stare until I turned to dust. Each display of goods is more enticing than the last, especially once we get to a section of all fruits and vegetables.

Piles of fresh apples gleam with a faint red glow, and my mouth waters immediately.

I’m glad Alyth warned of not eating anything; the temptation’s overwhelming to snatch one of the apples that look so juicy, so ripe, so… powerful.

The apples look powerful? No—they’d make me powerful. Somehow. I don’t know how I know, but it’s as solid as the ground beneath my feet: that apple would give me power.

Alyth drags me away, and I hurry along with her, shaking the funny feeling out of my head.

In its place comes unease.

Everything here feels like those items I used to collect for Cecil. Red Cap weapons, I know now; but they were enticing like this is, enticing when they had no business being such, because they were so deadly. And all with that soft scratch at the back of my mind, the wrongness of it.

So is everything here deadly too?

My awareness flares up, eyes narrowing in alertness, sweeping over the items around us, the people with renewed intensity. But Alyth pushes on, familiarity in her gait; she knows this place. She must know of its threats, then.

We reach a wide-open area, a market square. The road has turned to cobblestones, and the expanse is cleared for twisting, twirling couples all throwing themselves into a dance.

Music plays from—somewhere.

Everywhere.

It’s all over suddenly, a tune that resonates in the tips of my fingers and the edges of my teeth, where they clamp tight, trying to stave off more of that weirdness, and in a flash, panic floods my limbs, has my eyes flying wide.

Is the music magic? I’m used to items, things I know not to touch—but how do you avoid sound ?

Alyth stops when I do, looking back at me with confusion.

I see the music hit her. See the chords and rises reach her mind, the way her pupils dilate.

And all my panic finds a target.

I drop my grip on her and thrust my hands over her ears, blocking the music from her in a flurry of instinct.

But I have nothing to protect my own ears, and I can feel the melody creeping into my head, sliding up over my mind and…

and…infecting me is all I can think. It’s in me, this heavy beat, drums and flutes, maybe—I can’t place them.

Just when I think I recognize an instrument, it changes, keeps me playing guessing games in a chase like the wisp through the bog.

“Alyth,” I gasp, clamping my hands tight to her head, hoping I can at least protect her. Let her be all right.

All the panic, the oddities, the off-balance wrongness—it grabs me by the throat, and I choke as my vision prickles.

Don’t black out. Don’t—

She touches my wrists. “Samson, it’s all right. The music won’t hurt us.”

Her words take a beat to process.

“It won’t?” I clarify.

She gently lowers my hands from the sides of her head and nods toward the square. “Look.”

There’s a couple not far, tangled up in each other, mouths locked and hands roaming, both looking mostly human save for pointed ears and the shared purple glow pulsating off their skin.

One of them, a woman in an opulent gown made of sunflowers, lifts the smaller woman so her legs knot around the lifter’s hips.

Their kiss intensifies and sends a sharp bolt of jealousy arching through me.

I could lift Alyth like that. I could hold her against me.

The thought charges into my head, dragging with it an army of wants: I want to sweep Alyth into a dance.

I want to hold her close like we were in Mary’s palace, only I need her closer.

I need her forming to my body the way these fae dancers are molding to each other, letting the beat move them in a sinuous sway.

I need her against me, a need so potent that it terrifies me, and she must see the worry in my eyes.

Her gaze sparkles. “The music just lowers your inhibitions.”

“That’s—” I swallow. “That’s it? It isn’t dangerous? It won’t hurt you?”

She smiles again. “You aren’t worried about it hurting you?”

I blink. And it must be the music. Must be why my tongue loosens and I say, “No. Not at all. You’re all that matters.”

Her smile dims but doesn’t vanish. She studies me and I let her, all open.

After a long beat, the music building in me, building and building until I might burst, she whispers, “It’s safe.”

That’s all I need. Some unspoken permission, just one word: safe.

Then she’s in my arms again, and I sigh so mightily, I’d be embarrassed if not for the music dragging me sweetly along.

Alyth laughs. “Fae music can be a bit strong the first time. Don’t worry. There are no lasting effects.”

“Mm.” I don’t care. Not about anything now. She said it’s safe, she said it won’t hurt her, so I’m letting the magic take me, not strong enough to resist.

I’m holding her again, her warm body pressed to mine, one arm around her waist and the other pushing up the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair.

Her breath catches. The grate of it in her lungs, the hiss of it on her tongue…I want to chase it.

Some sense knocks back into me, and instead of kissing her, I press my face into the curve of her shoulder. “Alyth. I don’t know what’s—just, I need a moment, all right? Then we can—”

I’m babbling. I don’t babble. But I keep laying words like that into the soft, warm skin on the side of her neck, apologizing and begging, because I’m not worthy of this. Doesn’t she know? And she’s letting me. She’s letting me hold her.

And I think—she’s moving with me. We’re dancing in a way, not unlike how we were in Mary’s castle, only…

no, it’s very unlike how we were in Mary’s castle.

There, I was half certain Alyth would run off at any moment.

Now? She’s holding me too. She’s stroking her fingers through my hair and rocking her hips at the prodding of my hand on her lower back, and I curse every layer of our winter clothes keeping me from feeling her curves.

I want to rip each bit of cloth off her with my teeth.

Want to drag those teeth down her shoulder, across her chest, nipping at her stomach, at her hip, at her—

I whimper, and Christ, it’s pathetic. I don’t know what’s happening to me.

“It’s all right, Samson,” she whispers, something in her tone pitching low, matching the drop of the music, both things combining to wreak havoc on my willpower. She sounds strung out too. Her grip tightens in my hair, and I mewl into the hollow of her throat.

“It’s all right,” she says again, and she’s dancing, leading us in the gentle movement this music demands. She’s leading us, and when she says it again, “It’s all right,” I don’t think she’s talking to me. She’s saying it to herself.

I nod against her, hands roaming up her back, shoving her cloak aside so I can touch at least her gown, feel a little less of a barrier between us.

Her shoulder blades are sharp as cliffs, and I dig my fingers in until she hisses; then I memorize the knobs of her spine, letting each one prick me like thorns.

It’s the song. It’s drugging me, freeing me, something. This isn’t me. This isn’t me.

But it is. It’s what I want, what I’ve wanted from the first moment I saw her in that border town, and I cling to her tighter, my breathing turning to ragged, desperate pants.

She’s breathing harder too until she peels my face out of her neck.

I think she’s meaning to push me away, and I go willingly, ever at her disposal.

Only she holds my face just back from hers. Enough distance for us to see each other, her dark eyes shining so very, very bright.

“Alyth,” I say, and it’s a plea, a question; I might as well drop to my knees at her feet. It’s what she deserves, someone bowing to her, someone at her command.

Her expression grows serious. Studious. Ever thinking, this girl, ever turning over the situation, and before I can catch up with her, she’s lifting onto her toes, using her grip on my hair to angle my face down, and kissing me.