Page 3 of Wings of Cruelty and Flame (Heir of Wyvara #1)

CHAPTER TWO

AMEIRAH

M y father disliked me, Xiu loathed me, and my brothers wanted me dead, but god must have loved me because he not only listened to my prayer of vanity; he went above and beyond.

My litter was carried through a cacophonous rainbow of sound—drums and flutes, voices singing a lyrical, joyous melody, and guests shouting to be heard over the music, discussing my takchita or my hair or the elaborate embellishments on the seat I was carried upon. For once, the majority of words I heard were positive, and strange— beautiful, spectacular, such fine work, and even conversations about my appearance that praised my high cheekbones or the pout of my lips. Only one person mentioned my mismatched eyes, and his wife immediately shushed him.

The tide would turn when food and wine flowed—I’d been to enough gatherings to know how tongues sharpened at these kinds of things. But for now, I soaked up the unexpected praise, smiling until my eyes fell on the white and gold litter already at the end of our procession. The man within it was broad-shouldered and huge, his head almost reaching the top of the litter, his skin a rich brown-gold that shone like it had been scrubbed and polished like mine. He wore a detailed kaftan embellished with gold in the same patterns that had been painstakingly sewn on my dress. Whoever had created these clothes clearly invested time and love into them; the woman in the crowd was right, it was fine work.

The man himself was even finer, a perfect example of a man, right down to the imperfections and scars on his skin. I didn’t approve of the way my heart suddenly slammed into my ribs. Yes, his face was a work of art, all sweeping curves and hard angles, and his eyes intensely surveyed the crowd beneath strong brows, but he was just a man. There was no need for me to have palpitations over marrying him.

Except… that hair…

Long and luscious, left to cascade over shoulders so big I could probably sit on each one comfortably. There was a wave to his black hair that reminded me of the bandits in the adventure books I read as a child. The feeling was only enhanced by the snake inked onto his throat, disappearing beneath the white collar of his kaftan, and the pale slice of a scar across his throat. The Scarred Serpent, they called him. It had always struck me as both an inspiring name and a cruel one, to remind him of his scar every time someone opened their mouths.

He really should have died from that wound, but like the newspapers wrote, he’d outsmarted death and refused to surrender his life. His battle magic had wrought a miracle, they wrote, not knowing his battle magic was a clever lie.

My husband was undeniably skilled in war and flight, but his magic came in the form of control. That was why the golden boy of Morysen had fallen, why he was a pariah. People were terrified of him, afraid he’d turn that wicked power on them. If the rumours were true, he could influence anyone to commit any act, speak any word of his choosing, and they’d never even know he’d done it. They were probably distracted by that glorious face, or maybe all the hair.

Maybe the shoulders.

Or the biceps.

I needed to stop looking at them, at all of him, or I would lose my mind without the intervention of magic. It was an annoying thing to learn my mind scrambled at the sight of pretty hair, a sharp jawline, and eyes that glittered—at me. Because he was watching me back.

I forced my stare away as the strong-backed men carrying my litter lowered me beside Varidian. Their hands slipped, the front of the litter angling forward. Shit. I bit back a curse as I nearly tipped out of my seat before they righted me.

Their mouths opened on apologies but I didn’t hear a single word because a warm, broad palm had wrapped around my arm, saving me the embarrassment of tumbling out of the litter.

I glanced at Varidian from the corner of my eye, and wondered if I should slap his hand away, if all wives felt the burning heat of their husband’s hands with every touch. It was like fire, like coals where he touched me. I only resumed breathing when he let go, satisfied I wasn’t about to embarrass us.

I wasn’t convinced about not embarrassing myself, though. I daren’t even look at my husband. My actual husband. Who I was married to.

Papers had been signed, legally binding; this event was just the celebration. Of my marriage. To the absolute specimen at my side, whose eyes smouldered and sparkled, and whose touch burned like fire in the best of ways.

Oh, fuck, I was in trouble.