Page 18

The room that greets me is a stark contrast to the opulence of the main palace, yet another space filled with stacks and books.

It’s a private library, no doubt, though far less tidy than the previous one, filled with the comforting, earthy scent of old paper and ink.

Scrolls are piled high on every surface, maps are tacked to the walls, and books, their leather bindings worn smooth, overflow from shelves.

None of which has my attention like the tall, handsome blond who looks up in surprise from the book he’s reading and meets my eyes with his blue ones.

“Overhighness,” I say.

“Princess,” he nods, frowning a little, rubbing at his eyes with one hand.

A plate sits next to his elbow, half-eaten food cold and congealed, a goblet of wine beside it.

“Thanks for coming. Please.” He gestures for me to join him, rising to free the seat of a stool to match his from the stack of parchment that fills it.

I’m caught off guard, I admit it. He’s acting rather offhand with me, comfortable, and makes no attempt at formality aside from his address.

With Amber’s suggestion firmly in mind, I do as I would normally and sit as instructed, leaning forward across his desk and turning the book he’s reading toward me.

“ Battle Strategies of the First Kingdoms ,” I say, reading the title aloud.

“ The Rise and Fall of Thirteen Thrones .” I page flip through the contents while he sits again and watches.

When I reach the end, I carefully open it again to the exact page he’d stopped on, turning it back toward him before meeting his eyes.

“Am I here to educate you on matters of war, Overhighness?”

The oil lanterns that light his room offer solid, unwavering light, as much as his quiet expression is still and calm.

He’s dressed in simple, unadorned clothing, though the fabrics are clearly of fine weave.

He’s been running his hands through his hair, the artful waves I’ve noted now disheveled, falling across his forehead and brushing his open collar.

Gone is the pampered Overprince I met in the hall when I first tried to leave, the bored and restless groom-to-be from dinner last night.

He's as much a scholar as I am a soldier, and his steady gaze holds no animosity. There are faint shadows beneath his deep, blue eyes, and a faint smile touches his lips at my suggestion.

“We can have that talk, if you like,” he says, his voice a low, clear tone.

“I’d be happy to learn from your experience all that I know I’m missing just by reading about it.

” He gestures at the book in front of him, a faint frown replacing his smile.

“There’s much that’s missing, I know, but it’s all I have access to without actually going to war. ”

How can I be so disarmed by his honesty? This encounter has taken a turn that has me suddenly wary as much as it has me wondering. My mind says, not safe. I’d be smart to listen to it. Except my gut, the part of me that has saved my life more times than I can count, thinks otherwise.

It whispers, friend . And maybe more than friend.

I lean away, purposely, and survey the room, letting him see that I’m checking for hidden dangers, for the knife that I’m waiting to parry. Except, as he sighs softly, I accept that he’s entered into this meeting without guile, at least as far as I can tell.

We are alone.

“I know I shouldn’t be offended,” he says.

“Are you?” I watch him the way he watches me, openly curious, matching his energy. “Offended?”

Altar hesitates before he shrugs. “A little. Silly, but true.”

“ I’m offended,” I say. That has his eyes widening until I release a slow smile that smolders.

This is a seduction, after all, and while perhaps it’s meant to be a trap, he really is very handsome, and I haven’t managed to find anyone to bed yet.

He’ll do if it comes to that. “I’m offended that you think I have any idea why I’m really here. ”

Altar relaxes slightly, reaching for the wine decanter, offering me a glass with a gesture toward an empty cup. I nod and accept it as he pours with ink-stained fingers. I’m fascinated by now, and I find that I am drawn in by his voice as he speaks.

“You’re wondering if it’s poisoned, no doubt.

” He takes a full swallow, watching me over the rim as I wait to help myself.

“I can assure you, it’s quite safe.” He tops up his glass, nodding when I sip.

“You’re here,” he says, “for a few reasons. First, I wanted to apologize. About yesterday. I understand you had no idea what you’d gotten yourself into. ”

“Truth,” I say, saluting him with my wine. It’s excellent and I’m already halfway through the glass, though I know better than to lose my wits to it, forcing myself to set it down for the time being. “Nice of you to care.”

“Since no one else does.” He says it like it’s common knowledge, so I just nod.

“For the record, I loved the dress.” Altar laughs a little, blue eyes sparkling.

“I about fell over when I saw you sitting there at dinner. They planned that, I take it. The others?” Another nod satisfies him. “You’re not like them.”

“What gave me away?” I circle the rim of my glass with one fingertip.

His gaze falls to the motion and watches for a moment before he meets mine again. “Why are you here?”

“My mother lied to me,” I tell him that utter truth without emotion. “She said I was meant to marry the Overprince, to become Overqueen someday, for the glory and power of Heald. I followed her orders because she gave them to me.”

“Do you always do as you’re told?” He’s watching my finger again. I dip it into the wine, bring it to my mouth. When I suck the liquid from my skin, catching a droplet with my tongue, I see his pulse speed up at the base of his throat, his cheeks flush.

“Yes,” I say, letting my hand fall as a fist to thud on the desk. He jumps a little, catches himself, eyes returning to mine. “Like it or not, I’m a soldier, Overhighness. It’s my job to obey my queen in all things.”

That has him frowning, looking down at the book in front of him. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“You keep apologizing to me,” I say, lighter in tone now, teasing. “That’s unbecoming of an Overprince, isn’t it?”

His rueful smile flashes, Altar looking up at me through his blond hair. Adorable, sexy in his way. Yes, I can live with this, make it work for me. And let him see that in my face as he clears his throat, takes a sip of wine.

With lips that I’m now anticipating on my own.

“Maybe,” he says. Shifts in place. “I do have questions.”

“Ask,” I say. “If it’s in my power, I’ll answer.”

Altar’s smile lights his eyes. I honestly expected flirting in return.

Instead, he begins to pepper me with inquiries, rapid-fire, eager, to my dismay, and for the next many hours, I’m doing as I promised.

He wants to know about Heald, about our traditions, our people, our battles.

I rise and pace at times, Altar at others, his deep and thoughtful asks making me respond in kind.

This was not what I had planned for our meeting, and if he knows it, he’s not showing it. The excitement that grips him, honest and genuine, has me answering everything with matching energy that makes me a bit breathless.

He digs deep, about my mother, her strategies, her renowned ferocity.

He asks about our most recent battle, the northeastern engagement inside the farmlands of Nethal, our tactics, the cost, and then, his gaze sharpening, he asks about my role in it.

How I fought. What I commanded. My choice to let the soldiers flee instead of wiping them out, and why that differs from the tactics of my mother.

I unfold all the details of the battle down to the sword strokes that I relive as he listens with open fascination.

It’s surprisingly easy to be drawn in by his intense curiosity, his genuine interest. I talk about the muddy terrain, the blinding smoke from the blazing forest the locals set afire to slow us down, only to have the wind turn it back on them.

The clash of steel, the screams of the dying.

I describe the tactical decisions, the flow of battle, the exhaustion, the exhilaration of victory.

I answer when I maybe shouldn’t, revealing details that a cautious warrior would keep to herself.

I wasn’t going to trust anyone here. And yet, it’s clear that to succeed at my goal, to win this prize that is the Overprince, nothing short of utter honesty will end the way I need it to. The irony of manipulation through complete truth is one I appreciate immensely.

If he knows what I’m up to, it doesn’t seem to matter to him. One thing is certain to me. While I might be unique in his experience, he, too, is unlike any man I’ve ever met, and I find I like his curiosity very much. It’s a surprising connection, one I never expected.

“And magic?” His question is abrupt, startling, makes me snort.

“No such thing anymore,” I tell him. “With the dragons gone.”

Altar hesitates, smiles. And launches into a new line of questions that distracts me from that unusual moment.

It’s his turn, I insist on it, answering honestly when I challenge him with questions of my own.

He listens to each with absolute attention, his brow furrowed in thought before he answers as thoroughly as I had.

He speaks of his own studies, of the ancient past, of his grandfather and the founding of the Overkingdom, hinting at things he believes are not widely known.

His voice is deep, intelligent, full of a quiet passion I never expected from a pampered Overprince.

Before I realize it’s happened, we’ve talked the night into morning.

Hours have given way as we discussed politics, history, the structure of the Overkingdom, the delicate balance of power between the thirteen kingdoms. By the time dawn begins to paint the sky with streaks of bruised purple and rose out the window behind him, I am yawning from a second night without sleep, my body aching with a strange combination of exhaustion and exhilaration.

The lantern’s oil has run almost dry, several of them gutted and dark, and the room is filled with a soft, kind light of morning.

Altar finally stretches, a look of surprise on his face.

“Forgive me,” he says, then laughs. “Here I am, apologizing again.” His chuckle makes me smile.

“But I seem to have kept you up all night. I rarely find someone with whom I can speak so freely, so honestly.” He regards me with a genuine, warm expression that makes my insides flutter.

Not because I know now that Amber was right.

For my own reasons that surprise me. “You may go if you wish. Before you miss breakfast with the others.”

He’s rolled his sleeves to the elbow, a small spot of ink streaking the pale hair there. I reach out to touch it, wiping at it with my fingertip. It’s an unconscious move, unintended, and all the more powerful for it.

Altar freezes when I touch him, and when I look up, he’s flushed again.

Be myself. Very well. Because I very much want to do so with him.

I rise, circle the table, pushing him back with firm hands.

His blue eyes flutter, thick blond lashes catching daylight, his lips parting as I close the distance.

There’s a perfect space for me between his parted thighs, and I chuckle at the change in his face when I press into him, one hand on his chest, the other at the front of his trousers.

He’s hard and I’m suddenly very, very wet.

“I’m not hungry for breakfast,” I say. I make no effort to seduce him with my voice. It’s husky all on its own.

“Remalla.” He’s just as raspy when he says my name, though he doesn’t touch me, hands firmly on his thighs as I stroke once, twice, then cup the heat of him in my palm and squeeze gently through the fabric between us.

His moan makes me shudder.

“Altar,” I slide my other hand up, following the curve of his chest, to his neck and his pounding pulse before cupping the back of his head, fingers winding in his hair. “What are you hungry for?”

He swallows. His lips part.

I don’t wait for an answer because it’s obvious to me.

I kiss him instead. Not soft, not teasing. I claim his mouth, my tongue inside him as I squeeze below again. His breath catches, but still he restrains himself as though he’s unable to respond the way he wants.

And then he’s kissing me back, both hands driving into my hair, jerking me close, devouring me like he’s been starved for something real and doesn’t know how to handle it.

I pull hard on the ties of his trousers, dropping my hand to haul up the hem of my skirt, straddling him in a single motion.

He hesitates. I feel it, a coiling in his spine. He wants me. I can taste it, already anticipate all of him inside me, the heat of him pressed against my inner thigh, dripping tip so close. But something stops him.

I could push. I want to. My body aches with the need to make him give me what I want. Such a small nudge. And yet.

I slow. Pull back. Meet his eyes. His lips are red and swollen from our kisses, his eyes wide, pupils blown despite the anxiety there.

“You don’t want this,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady through the need throbs so powerfully that I’ll come if he touches me again. It’s not anger I feel, though, or frustration.

It’s sorrow. Odd, that, and smothers the drive to take him and use him for my pleasure.

“I do,” he says quickly. “Remalla, I do. But… this place. My father. You. Everything is complicated.”

I rest my forehead against his. Because now I know the truth, and despair will win if I let it. “You’re not picking any of us,” I say.

He sighs deeply. “I can’t,” he says, voice breaking. “I knew you’d understand.”

I do, I think. While he has no idea, in his principles and his choice to defy his father, that he’s signed my death warrant, or that of my people.

He exhales, shuddering, and touches my face like it might break him to let go. I’m already stepping away, straightening my skirt, accepting this truth. There will be another path, another way.

“Remalla…”

“I should go,” I say.

“Don’t,” he whispers. Then stops himself. “Don’t hate me.”

I’m already turning for the door, heart pounding, thighs slick, pulse thrumming a war drum rhythm in my chest.

There are battles I know how to win. This is not one of them.

And while my mother will no doubt be very disappointed in me, I will not make him choose me when doing so will break him.