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SIX

Tempest

Winter’s bite, she hated morning.

Tempest felt like death, yet she dragged herself out of bed to eat breakfast at the palace with the war council and the royal family. It had become a regular part of her routine over the last several days.

It was a mistake.

Her new morning ritual pained her to the point that she hardly ate anything. Sitting among scheming war criminals dampened one’s appetite. Tempest rubbed at her eyes. Bloody hell, she was exhausted. What she wouldn’t give just to crawl back into bed.

“Excellent!” King Destin said joyfully.

Her lip curled. Morning people. Depraved, morning people were a blight on the world. She wiped her disdain from her face and sighed, her gaze flicking toward the king. What had the monarch and his lackies concocted the night before once she’d been dismissed?

Destin stood, his chair scraping across the floor noisily. Tempest straightened as all eyes were riveted in the king’s direction.

He smiled, his handsome face lighting up. “My sons will be leaving for Kopal in three days hence,” King Destin announced.

That was sooner than expected. Such a trip took preparation and time. How long had the king been planning this? What was his end goal? With the rising rebellion, why didn’t he want his sons close? Risking his sons’ lives on the road was careless. Her mind flashed to what the Jester had said the night before—that knowing the princes were going to leave Dotae could be useful. Why would the king announce his sons’ travel plans like he was? Moving his sons in secret was safer. Was he trying to flush out a traitor? If so, it was stupid to gamble with his heirs.

“It will do the kingdom some good,” Destin continued. “It will be to our benefit to show that we are willing and ready to make alliances with other nations, especially in these trying times with the Talagans.” He sat as his war council fawned over him.

Her skin prickled. Someone was watching her. Tempest glanced to her left and caught the attention of Ansette who was sitting beside her. How had she not noticed the princess before? She swiped a hand over her face. Stupid mornings.

The look in the girl’s eyes told Tempest loud and clear that the princess did not think it was a good idea to send her brothers away so early, either, and that there was therefore something much larger at play right now. Ansette stabbed at a boiled egg on her plate .

Tempest slid her gaze to the king. Did he know his daughter was clearly unenthused with his decisions? That sort of discontent among royals was dangerous. The girl was going to get herself killed if she didn’t start learning to hide her feelings. Tempest once again rubbed her temples, feeling sick and stressed. Between what the king had—and hadn’t—said, the way Pyre had acted as the Jester the night before, and even how Levka had treated her, Tempest was rung out. Now, she also had a dissatisfied, intelligent princess to keep an eye on.

It was too much. She couldn’t take being around people anymore.

Tempest stood abruptly, clattering her knife and fork onto her plate of largely uneaten food. She muttered an apology and fled the banquet hall before a single word could be said to keep her in place.

She needed a distraction from all the treachery, politics, and mind games. Tempest needed to fight.

Forlornly, she thought back to a few short months ago when all she had to worry about was her trial to join the Hounds. Everything had been simple then. Easy.

It had all been a lie.

Nothing was easy.

The next day was filled with Tempest training, training, training, until her body felt like it might break. But with every day that it didn’t, it instead grew stronger and leaner and harder.

Tempest trained until she could almost ignore the fact that she was a double agent .

Almost.

Stars, she loved physical activity—how it suited her soul and made her feel in control of herself. But it wasn’t helping like it normally did. Tempest snarled and violently shot an arrow. It hit the target and shattered on impact. She heaved in a breath, sweat dripping down her neck. That might have been a tad aggressive.

“Careful, Tempest,” Madrid said sternly from his position overlooking the training grounds. “That’s your third one this week. Surely, you do not want to ask the king for more arrows.”

She stiffened at his tone. Uneasy, Tempest shifted, and her fingers tightened around her bow. What exactly did Madrid know about her arrangement with king? Anything? He had to know something. He was the Madrid —the King’s Sword.

Heat rushed into her cheeks in embarrassment at the king’s suggestion from the night before. She still did not understand why he had ordered her to do anything necessary on her next mission. His insinuation had been obvious, but if he was as personally interested in Tempest as he had previously let on, then why would he want her sleeping with the Talagan rebels? Perhaps it was all a show to make sure the other members of the war council knew that he was in control of her.

That soured her mood further.

Instead of verbally answering Madrid’s question, Tempest nodded. He pursed his lips in a rare show of emotion. Clearly, she’d needled him. He turned from Tempest to oversee another group of archers who were gawking at her.

Time for Tempest to move on to something else. The sword.

She moved over to the circular arena preserved for close-combat fighting. There was nobody else there. Thank Dotae. Her mood was as black as the Jester’s heart. Carefully, she leaned her quiver and bow against the post and pulled her sword from her scabbard before clambering over the ropes to begin swinging the sword in practiced movements. No one approached. A humorless smile touched her mouth. It seemed as if nobody would dare to spar with her in her current mood.

So, instead of sparring, she satisfied herself with moving through different stances and combat patterns until her temper was quelled somewhat and her transitions from one move to the next were as fluid as water. Losing herself in such movements brought peace and centered her. The world ceased to exist.

Sweat pooled beneath her corset, her arms ached, and yet, she carried on. Tempest swung but halted abruptly as she caught sight of a visitor who’d snuck up on her. A visitor that had the attention of the entire barracks.

She moaned softly. Why did he have to intrude on her peace now? She tried to catch her breath, chest heaving, and considered ignoring the observer entirely. But it wasn’t possible. There were consequences to ignoring a king. Tempest sheathed her sword, all the while staring at the ground. Time to face the devil.

Lifting her gaze, she impassively eyed the intimidating figure of King Destin. Disturbing, really. He was splendid, even in a plain white shirt, high-waisted black trousers, and knee-high boots. She was struck by how much younger than his years he looked in such casual clothes. Even in simple garb, he commanded attention.

Destin ran a hand through his auburn hair and beckoned for her to come closer. That rankled her. He called her like she was a blowsy wench. Tempest pressed her lips together and forced herself forward, knowing she couldn’t refuse. She paused just out of reach, a respectable distance. No need to give the gossips of the barracks anything more to blather about. Then there was the fact that, deep down, she was scared Destin would somehow smell betrayal on her.

The king smiled. “Why so far away?” he asked, the picture of politeness. But there was a glint in his eye that told Tempest he thoroughly enjoyed the challenge of putting her on the spot.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she said, bowing slightly. “I thought you would not enjoy the smell of me. Right now, I am soaked in sweat; it is not pleasant.” She’d thrown down the gauntlet. No man enjoyed a smelly woman.

The king threw his head back and laughed, his tan throat exposed. He dropped his head, his golden eyes twinkling with mirth. “Humor me. Come closer, Tempest.”

Rot it. Nothing to be done but obey—to openly defy him would be inadvisable at best—and so she slowly closed the distance between herself and Destin and climbed over the fence. No sooner had her feet touched ground, when he pushed her against a rough wooden post. He brushed a lock of sweat-drenched hair from Tempest’s face.

Destin licked his plush lips. “I’d rather be the one to help you work up a sweat, all things considered,” he said, voice low.

The dirty knave .

On purpose, Tempest misunderstood him. “That could be dangerous for your health, Your Majesty. I’m quite deadly with a blade, as you well know.” She smiled as if she had genuinely misinterpreted the king’s comment, but her ruse was no use. Tempest watched King Destin’s Adam’s apple move as he swallowed, a small smile playing about his lips.

“I am aware,” he murmured. “I like a little risk. ”

Her eyes widened as she understood what he intended to do a mere moment before he did it.

The king kissed her.

She wanted nothing more than to recoil, but with the post behind her and everyone’s eyes on them, she had no choice but to put up with the king’s assault. Her stomach twisted, and she focused on the way the wood dug into her spine and pressed into the back of her skull. Her pulse picked up when he pressed his mouth harder against hers and swiped his tongue against her closed lips, evidently wanting her to open to him.

Like hell. Instead, she bit his lower lip. Hard .

Destin jerked and broke the kiss. Her chest brushed his as she tried to catch her breath. A small bit of blood dotted his lip, and bile burned the back of her throat. She’d marked the king. Others had died for such a trespass.

He flicked his tongue against his busted lip, and a slow smile crossed his face, his eyes heating further. Horror churned in her belly. If anything, he looked at her with even more lust than before. What kind of deviant was he? His amber eyes dragged themselves up and down her heaving chest and shaking legs—her weakness was fully on display. Did he enjoy being the one in control? His personality certainly suggested so. She supposed she should not be that surprised, given how many mistresses King Destin was known to have had. His sexual proclivities were not likely to be all that plain.

Not knowing what else to do, Tempest ducked under King Destin’s arms, mumbling, “I have to go.”

She knew the king’s eyes were on her, so Tempest made sure not to run. She kept her steps slow and deliberate, leaving her back uncomfortably exposed. She had barely made it five feet from the man before he called out, “Don’t have too much fun with the rebels.”

Tempest shuddered. Despite what the king had said the day before about having her do anything to infiltrate the Talagan rebels, this felt far more like his actual order.

And it sounded like a threat.

Exhausted, with muscles crying from all the physical exertion and a near-permanent headache coloring her vision, Tempest stalked back to the barracks, thinking that she’d rather sleep the entire day away. She swiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Scrubbing the king’s slobber off of her was top priority.

She missed a step when she spotted an interloper in the barracks. Her lip curled.

Pyre. The Jester. He lay sprawled across her bunk with a lazy grace that spoke of dark nights and silk sheets. Could she not catch a break? First, the king, and, now, the kitsune? Surely, a higher power was conspiring against her.

Tempest’s hand flew to the hilt of her sword entirely on instinct even as she slammed her door shut to protect the two of them from prying eyes. Her brow twitched, the lingering headache on the verge of becoming a full-on migraine simply from looking at Pyre smoking a pipe without a care in the world while he so clearly watched her reaction, with twitching fox ears and amused, golden eyes.

A bloody pipe.

“Just what in the name of Dotae are you doing here?” she hissed, glancing around the empty barracks as if there was someone lurking in the shadows.

“Can’t I miss you?” he crooned.