Page 15

UNDRESS FOR SUCCESS (AND OTHER TACTICAL ERRORS)

KAZIMIR

I flung my waistcoat across the study with unnecessary force, watching it land in a pathetic crumple by the desk.

One day. One fucking day since I’d stolen Arabella from her carriage, and already she was wreaking havoc on my well-honed self-control.

The way she’d looked at me when we danced—regal, defiant, breathtaking—had made me want to claim her right in front of my court.

And if Morana hadn’t chosen that moment to create a scene of her own, I would have done something incredibly stupid.

And that last kiss on the stairwell? A disastrous mistake.

“Forty-fold amplification,” I muttered, pouring myself another brandy with hands that absolutely were not trembling. “That’s all it was. Magical resonance.”

Snatching the glass off the table, I downed it in two long swallows. This was humiliating. I didn’t get flustered over anyone, much less a woman who’d spent our entire acquaintance either stabbing me or plotting to do so.

Still, I couldn’t banish the memory of her mouth against mine. I’d tasted her, and for those moments, been lost in the warmth of her body, the breathy sound she made when my tongue plunged deeper. When she’d arched against me, I’d forgotten every single one of my so-called priorities.

Terror of the Western Realms, indeed.

The sound of running water reminded me she was just behind the bathing chamber door.

I set my empty glass aside, then tore off my shirt and tossed it carelessly onto the growing pile of clothes.

The runes carved into my skin glowed faintly with the remnants of the day’s magic, their scorching memory tight across my chest and arms.

I considered a robe, then let it fall back on its hook. If I was going to be a villain, I might as well commit to the role.

Besides, clothing sometimes aggravated the scarring on my back, particularly on nights like this when my magic still buzzed under my skin.

Frankly, part of me wanted Arabella to see the monster in vivid detail.

Maybe then I could scare her off or remind myself of the real reason I’d brought her here in the first place.

After discarding the rest of my clothes, I settled back onto the bed, deliberately sprawling atop the covers, one arm casually tucked behind my head and my erection proudly on display. My body, traitorous as it was, had stirred at the mere thought of her. She deserved to suffer a little, too.

When the faint click of the bathing chamber door finally came, I’d expected an outraged squeak or some show of shock.

What I got was a momentary, breath-stealing pause where her gaze drifted down my chest and then lower, carefully cataloging every inch of exposed skin.

My breath almost caught at the sight of her—hair damp in loose, golden waves, a robe clinging to her curves.

She was almost too stunning, and it infuriated me that I reacted so strongly.

“You really weren’t joking,” she said, her tone admirably calm, though her cheeks turned pink.

“I rarely joke,” I replied, hoping I sounded dismissive rather than unsettled. “Ruins the mystique.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “You could at least cover yourself properly.”

“I think you’ve confused me with someone who cares about modesty.” I gestured to the empty half of the bed beside me. “Feel free to join me whenever you’re ready. I promise I only bite by request .”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she surveyed the empty space beside me, like she was calculating how far away she could lie without falling off the bed. “I need proper nightclothes.”

I nodded toward the wardrobe. “You’ll find some there, though I’m not sure how ‘proper’ they’ll be.”

She yanked the wardrobe door open, searched for a moment, and pulled out a slip of black silk. “This is practically see-through,” she complained, holding it up in the moonlight.

I forced a lazy shrug even as my imagination helpfully supplied an image of that delicate fabric clinging to her curves. “It’s what was available.”

She made a sound of disbelief, then turned for the bathing chamber. Before she could vanish, I flicked my wrist, sealing the door with a pulse of magic. It closed with a neat click, leaving her standing halfway across the room, clutching that scandalous nightgown.

She spun to glare at me, eyes sparking with danger. “Are you serious?”

I smirked from my place on the bed. “Consider this a test of your resolve, Lady Blackrose.”

For a moment, she stood frozen, her chest rising and falling with barely contained fury. I expected her to fling the garment in my face. Instead, her expression shifted. “Very well.”

Without breaking eye contact, she let the robe slip to the floor, revealing every bare inch of herself as a deliberate counterattack.

She was toned and soft in all the right ways, the interplay of moonlight and firelight coursing over her skin.

My own breath stalled. I’d half counted on her modesty to keep things from getting out of hand, but she’d just turned it back on me in an instant.

Caught off guard, I stared. The memory of how her body had felt under my hands seared my mind, and for once, I had nothing clever to say.

She slid the nightgown over her head in one swift move.

The silk was as sheer as I’d pictured, clinging to her body with an infuriating invitation.

If she was out to prove she wasn’t intimidated, she was succeeding.

My palms literally itched to reach for her.

And the rest of me wanted to… well, to do other things.

Lady Arabella was far more dangerous than advertised.

“So,” she said, her gaze dropping to my almost painful erection, “is this how your marriages typically start?”

I leaned forward. “Most who talk back to me like you do don’t live long enough to enjoy the show,” I said, unable to keep a rasp from my voice.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, ignoring the effect the movement had on her barely-covered breasts. “I hate you,” she announced, sliding under the blankets to her side of the bed.

“So you’ve said,” I replied, “repeatedly. I might have it engraved on our wedding bands.”

Rolling her eyes, she got back up to gather a spare stack of pillows from the couch. With brisk efficiency, she constructed a mountainous blockade right down the center of the mattress.

I raised an eyebrow. “A pillow wall?”

“Get used to it, Dark Lord,” she shot back, slamming the last pillow down with emphasis. “Since you insist on trying to make me uncomfortable.”

“I sleep naked because it’s comfortable.” I stuffed one arm under my head again and relaxed against the headboard. “Your discomfort is merely a bonus, like finding an extra cookie in the jar. Or an extra prisoner in the dungeon.”

She glowered at me from behind her little pillow fortress, but something else flickered in her eyes before she schooled her expression. Then her gaze roamed over my runes, and I realized she’d spotted the scars covering my torso and limbs. “Do those hurt?” she asked quietly.

“Sometimes.” My voice came out rougher than I intended. “If I channel too much or they’re activated for specific spells.”

She observed them with a directness that left me more exposed than if I’d simply stood naked before a crowd. “Some of these look like binding runes,” she murmured, “but others… I’ve never seen anything like them.”

I hesitated. Usually, I reveled in how people flinched from my scars, but Arabella’s steady regard was unsettling in an entirely different way. “They’re unique,” I said at last. “Most deal with dominion spells… enhancements.”

“Who carved them onto you?” She seemed surprised by her own question. “You can’t have done it all by yourself?”

I met her eyes, resisted the urge to pull a blanket over my body, and kept my silence. The scars burned under her scrutiny, but some wounds were better left unexplained.

“Was it worth it?” she asked quietly.

A pulse of anger threatened to surge, but I forced a calm, measured tone. “Power is always worth the price.”

Arabella’s lips parted, but she didn’t press. Whatever she saw in my face, it kept her from asking more. She exhaled, lying down again, turning away as if to let the moment pass.

“You still haven’t told me why you specifically needed a bride of heroic bloodline,” she said.

I weighed my response. “I’ll show you tomorrow,” I promised, making sure my tone carried more command than warmth.

She was quiet so long I thought maybe she’d fallen asleep, but she spoke again, her voice drifting across the pillow barrier. “I still hate you.”

I managed a crooked grin, letting my eyes roam over her form under the blanket. There was more than hatred there. “I know. But here you are, sharing my bed anyway.”

She shifted, and I half expected her to lob a pillow at me. Instead, her voice unexpectedly dropped. “Why use your own bone for the rings? I recognized my hair, but… I didn’t realize...”

Her question took me off guard. I let my gaze flick to the faint glow of my wedding band. “Because it needed both of us,” I said at length. “Your hair, my bone. That’s how the Cup of Dominion ritual works.”

She let out a slow breath. “I’d ask if it hurt, but after seeing your runes, I imagine it was nothing.”

“Nothing’s ever truly nothing,” I countered, surprised at my own honesty. “But if this arrangement is worth doing, it’s worth doing properly.”

A contemplative silence stretched out, and I felt her analyzing my words, or maybe me, in the darkness. It made me vulnerable in a way I didn’t appreciate. I shifted, letting the covers drape strategically if only to ease the tension throbbing in my gut.

Finally, she scoffed softly. “I’m struggling to believe there’s any sincerity in you.”

“Then struggle,” I said, letting my mask reassert itself. “I’d advise you to rest, wife. I’ve quite a morning planned for us both. Who knows what fresh horrors you’ll discover about me tomorrow?”

She exhaled, and I heard the soft rustle of the sheets as she settled in, presumably not to sleep but to plot my demise in creative ways. Fine by me. Plot away, my little hero. I’d be waiting.