For King and Corruption, page 17
She approached Lazarus, pushing a waterfall of shiny black hair over her shoulder to better showcase her assets. Quinn tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. The fear at her fingers buzzed with excitement, sensing her change in mood.
“You must be Amelia,” Lazarus said, his voice gruff.
“That I am, Your Grace,” she simpered, dropping into a curtsy.
“Thank you for coming all this way,” he continued, his voice thick. Quinn was already moving down the steps before she could reply.
“The pleasure is all ours—” Amelia started, before she was interrupted.
“Quinn Darkova,” she announced, coming up beside Lazarus, in between him and Draven. “Right-hand to the King.”
Lazarus stiffened, and the smile on Amelia’s face froze into place as she turned her head. Quinn gave her a smile in return. One that was all teeth. The courtyard seemed to wait in suspense for a moment while Amelia didn’t respond.
“Draeven Adelmar,” the other man beside her said, stepping forward. “Left-hand to the King”—he leaned forward— “and between you and I, the more pleasurable one to boot.”
Quinn regarded him coldly as the courtyard broke out in a chorus of skittering laughs, the tension breaking just as Draeven had intended. “I wasn’t aware you were in the business of pleasuring anyone, Lord Sunshine,” Quinn quipped, causing Draeven to freeze. He cast her a look of warning even as he took Amelia’s hand and pressed a chaste kiss to the back of it.
“For the right woman, a man will do anything,” Draeven answered. “Just ask the guards.” Behind him another chorus of chuckles sounded, less wary and more at ease than before.
“Forgive my house, Lady Reinhart. They forget themselves at times . . .” Lazarus’ voice trailed off, hoarser than before. Quinn turned to regard him for a moment, but he wasn’t paying her any mind. His intense eyes were all on Amelia.
A splicing sensation ran through her chest. The temperature of the courtyard dropped as ice took root. The blood in her veins froze as Quinn pushed a sweaty lavender lock from her head. This feeling in her chest—it was dark and ugly. She pulled her eyes away from him and found herself staring into the face of Erwing.
“Would you care to take a walk through the castle with me, Lord Erwing? I know you must be tired from your travels, but. . .” She let the words hang, sensing her victory before he spoke.
“I would love to, Lady Darkova. Care to lead? It has been a while since I’ve lived here.” His words were suave and his motions even smoother as he approached, offering her his arm. Quinn took it, hiding the grimace from touching his sweat-slickened skin as they walked around Draeven and Lazarus, ascending the steps with ease. Erwing was several inches shorter than her, but made up for it in his quick pace. On their way through the double doors, she spotted the worried expression on Lorraine’s face, but the older woman did well to hide it as they stepped into the castle.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you, Lady Darkova. N’skari and right-hand to the King. That must be quite the story to tell,” he said lightly, both leading and following as they walked down the marbled halls.
“It’s less exciting than it sounds, truth be told,” Quinn said.
“What a shame. The rumors were fascinating.”
“You know what they say about rumors,” Quinn said as they strolled. “There’s often just as much truth as there is lie.”
Erwing regarded her with a knowing expression. A sly smile curling the corners of his lips. “Do you know the secret in how to tell what is truth from lie?” he asked. Quinn quirked a brow, prompting him onward. “Look for what lines up. If it’s the same in every story, there’s bound to be at least a grain of truth.”
Quinn nodded slowly. “And what did the rumors have to say about me?”
Erwing leaned in, almost conspiratorially. The ale on his breath smelled sour and the sweat dotting his brow dropped from his temple to his chin. Despite his appearance, there was something about his face that told her to watch and pay attention.
“Everywhere you go, fear follows—and destruction is all that remains in your wake.” His words were as ominous as they were true.
Quinn didn't reply to him. She simply smiled and kept walking.
Her silence was answer enough.
King of Fools
“Kick a dog once and it will return to the hand that feeds it. Kick a serpent, and it will strike.”
— Lazarus Fierté, soul eater, the foolish King of Norcasta
* * *
Fire licked through his veins. Heat settled beneath his skin. A traitorous warmth thickened in his groin. The breath hissed between his teeth as want came over him, and there was nothing natural about it.
Lazarus peered down at Amelia, suspecting she was the source.
She smiled back in her ridiculous little dress, and while his face didn’t show it—there was nothing he found appealing about the way she tried to play his emotions. Not when the woman he actually desired walked away arm in arm with the disgusting creature she called brother.
Lazarus’ fist closed, his knuckles turning white as desire rode him.
Amelia’s nails trailed down the thick fabric of his sleeve. Biting through just enough he was certain it was her power trying to control him.
A weak passion cleaver. That’s what the spies had said.
Lazarus gritted his teeth.
Skeevs. That’s what he’d thought them.
An idiot. That’s what Quinn would call him when this was all over.
For once, he wouldn’t hold it against her.
Few Maji abilities were strong enough to influence him, and Amelia’s was one of them. She’d have his entire court eating out of the palm of her hand within three days’ time.
He needed to rectify this situation, and the hardness of his cock wasn’t going to make it any easier.
“We are so tired after our long travels,” the woman’s honeyed voice grated his ears. “Would it be alright with Your Grace if we turned into our quarters before any evening festivities?” Her warm palm closed around his wrist and another shot of ecstasy ran through him. Closing his eyes and scrubbing his free hand down his face was all he could do to not groan.
He needed to get away from her. Now.
“Your Grace,” Draeven said slowly, pulling Lazarus from his thoughts.
“Excuse me,” Lazarus said, pulling away from Amelia. She reluctantly let his arm go, a syrupy sweet smile on her face the entire time. “The heat must be getting to all of us today. Lord Adelmar, would you please escort Lady and Lord Reinhart to their quarters.”
Draeven nodded once, his violet eyes squinting slightly as he looked between Lazarus and Amelia. His left-hand was smart enough to know something wasn’t right, but also smart enough to not speak of it in front of so many eyes.
“Of course,” Draeven said, stepping forward. He gave the Lady his best smile as Lazarus ascended the stairs. He stopped at the top step and beckoned Lorraine forward. His stewardess approached, waiting for a command.
He leaned in and whispered, “Find Quinn and send her to me. I’ll be in my chambers.”
Lorraine nodded once. “Yes, Your Grace.”
She turned and headed for the left wing of the palace; in the direction his fear twister had gone. He followed after to the main hall, pausing to scan the hallways. Even from a distance he could feel Amelia’s power edging into him. It pushed at his boundaries and enraged the souls within. When Quinn used her power, it stirred them because they wanted her. With Amelia, it was not the same. Not even remotely.
Equal parts rage and lust hammered through him.
He turned and headed for his rooms. The further he got from the courtyard, the more her power eased. It was only when he was in his suite with the door closed that he felt her power slip away entirely. Lazarus extended a hand to the wall and leaned against it, catching his breath.
Gods above. He’d been a fool to invite Amelia and her brothers.
If the rage thief was anywhere near as strong as his sister, this was going to be a problem, and he didn’t even know what Erwing could do. The rumors were too muddled where he was concerned.
He moved from the wall, further into the King’s suite. Crimson sheets rumpled his bed from the many restless nights. Gold and ruby lounges littered the space, leftover from Claudius’ reign when he used to take private audiences in his bedchamber because the sickness robbed him of all energy. The servants had done a fine job changing over every aspect in mere weeks to suit him. His house. His rule.
He’d wanted the crown more than anything, and he got it.
It was what he’d worked over half his life for.
So why in the dark realm did the weight of the metal on his head make his fists clench? Why did the sight of his colors make his jaw grind?
Why was it that all he thought about the last six months was the lavender-haired maruda that haunted his dreams and every waking moment?
Lazarus paced. His breaths came heavy. The tension rolling through him would not be abated. Not this time. Not without her.
A knock came at his door and Lazarus stopped.
“Come in.”
The door swung open, and the rage the beasts beneath his skin felt at being violated by one woman and not appeased by another reached its peak.
Lorraine stood in the doorway. Alone.
“Your Grace—”
“Where is she?”
“Lazarus,” Lorraine sighed.
“Where. Is. She?” he asked again. Lorraine’s lips pinched together as she looked away. She inhaled once and faced him again. The truth was written all over her face. “She refused me.”
Lorraine nodded. “I tried, Lazarus, I did—”
“She refused me,” he repeated, almost dumbfounded. Lazarus turned, sending his fist through a wall. The pain barely registered in his hand even as the brick and mortar crumbled to dust. The strength of a troll. He’d pulled on its power unintentionally and the beast obliged as it shared in his anger with him.
“Lazarus,” Lorraine repeated sharply. He blinked, turning to the woman before him. “She refused because you won’t make up your mind. She’s your right-hand by your choosing, and yet anytime she acts as such you admonish her. You made her what she is, and now you expect her to be something different. Something you can control. I’ve held my tongue these months with you, but it’s not right for you to act this way with her.” When she finished, her cheeks were pink, and her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“I’m the King,” he replied. “I can act in any way I wish.”
“You can,” Lorraine nodded. “But don’t expect her to bend the knee for a king that can’t control himself, let alone her. If you want her as a woman, then you take her as that, regardless of what the lords and ladies might say. If you don’t, you don’t have the right to be angry when she moves on.” She gave him a pointed look, and Lazarus swallowed down some of his ire.
“This has nothing to do with Erwing—” he started.
“If you truly believe that, then Quinn is right. You have become a fool.”
His stewardess walked out and closed the door softly behind her. Lazarus stood there, staring at the spot she’d been.
Did she just . . . Yes. Yes she did.
Lazarus looked around, running a hand over his stubbled jaw.
First Quinn and now Lorraine. Next thing Draeven would be here giving him ‘advice’ and then storming out of his chambers. Lazarus settled back on the edge of the bed, lowering his forehead to his open palm.
The crown slid. It hit the marble floors with a clatter.
Lazarus didn’t look. He didn’t care.
But for once, he listened.
Lorraine had been right. He either took her as she was, or let her go. Quinn would not change for him. She wouldn’t change for anyone. She was savage and brutal and cruel.
She was saevyana, and while he’d do most anything for the crown . . .
The one thing he couldn’t do was let her go.
Not as his right-hand.
Nor as his woman.
Quinn Darkova was his, and not even the woman herself would keep him from her.
Dinner’s Folly
“Illusions come in many forms. None so great as the illusion of safety.”
— Quinn Darkova, fear twister, right-hand to the King of Norcasta
* * *
Quinn paused at the end of the hallway and lifted a hand. Inside the formal dining room drunken laughter and unease made its way toward her. She hummed under her breath as the whispers of fear rose from her skin, twining together. An image of Lord Callis appeared. He smiled, and her nose twitched as she frowned slightly, adjusting the image until it exuded enough charisma to fool most people. She didn’t even have to try to add that hint of darkness in him. The fear added that all by itself. When she was pleased with the illusion before her, Quinn offered it her arm.
Lord Callis took it, and they strolled into the dining room together.
The previous bouts of laughter died down. A stilted silence settled in as Callis leaned in and whispered something in her ear. She laughed softly, purposefully, like she thought it was funny. Across the room, sitting in an oak chair with gold embellishments, Lazarus looked up at her.
The black of his eyes glinted in the low lights. The edges of a shadow peeked out of his tunic, running along his neck. Quinn might have responded, were Amelia Reinhart not sitting next to him.
She moved toward the seat at the other end of the table, between Titus and Lorraine.
“Lady Darkova,” Draeven coughed. She squinted at him, two seats down on Lazarus’ other side. He motioned to the empty chair between him and the King. “This one is reserved for you, as the right-hand.”
“I see,” Quinn said. She turned to Lord Callis and shared a knowing look. Her illusion grinned back at her, and took its seat. She walked woodenly down the long table, passing Titus then Lord Northcott, then Dominicus, and finally coming to a stop just past Draeven. On the other side of the table, Lorraine was seated beside Lord Brameer, followed by Lord Langston, who glared at her for simply being present. “Isn’t it odd to save a seat for the right-hand, and not the left?” she said softly, pulling back the popular chair with a stiff back and cushions that were more decorative than comfortable.
“Perhaps,” Draeven said lightly from her right. “Exceptions must be made for our honored guests, however.” He smiled at Amelia, but Quinn didn’t glance in her direction. She’d seen her silky black waves piled on her head. Even from across the table the woman scented too strongly of flowers. Quinn sniffed once and frowned distastefully.
“Mmm,” she hummed noncommittally as she reached for the clear glass in front of her. The crystal sparkled as she brought it to her nose.
“Water,” Lazarus murmured. Amelia, who had been in the middle of prattling on about some Lord, paused. Quinn brought the glass to her lips and took a small sip before lowering it back to the table.
“Mmm,” she hummed again, dancing the line of ignoring him and inciting his wrath. If he wanted to play games with her, she would play. She would win.
She would remind him who and what she was.
“Do we have anything stronger than ale?” her illusion asked, calling attention to his side of the table. “Wine, perhaps?” One of the servants who’d been lingering by the door skittered away to fetch some wine at Lord Callis’ request. Quinn lifted her glass once more, hiding her grin behind it.
“So, Lazarus,” Amelia drawled, bringing this half of the table’s attention back to her.
“King,” Quinn interrupted before she could continue.
“Excuse—”
“King Lazarus,” Quinn said. “It’s his title, and you’re only a noble Lady now. Not a princess. Not an heir. You should not speak like you’re equals.”
Amelia’s mouth opened and closed twice as she tried and failed to find a response.
“Quinn,” Draeven leaned in. “This is—”
“Fact,” she said, cutting him off.
“Yes, but—”
“Lady Darkova is right,” Lord Callis cut in, coming to her defense. Quinn lifted an eyebrow and gave Draeven a tight smile. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together.
“Thank you, my lord.”
Throughout the conversation she’d yet to look toward Lazarus again, but she could sense him. His darkness called to her own, especially when she inflamed it.
A hand closed around her knee beneath the table.
Even through her leather pants, she felt the heat of his skin burning hers.
Quinn swallowed; her throat suddenly dry. Her knee twitched as she tried to shake him off subtly, but Lazarus wouldn’t budge.
“Apologies, Your Grace,” Amelia quickly amended. “I did not mean to offend.”
“No offense taken,” Lazarus replied gruffly, his hand moving up her thigh. Quinn’s lips pinched together as she looked at her plate. On the other side of her, Draeven was stewing about being shut down by her illusion.
“I wanted to ask,” Erwing started, sitting on the other side of Amelia. “I heard rumors of a raksasa being part of your court.”
“She’s not a raksasa,” Quinn and Draeven said simultaneously. She shot him a sideways glance, which he returned. It seemed that at least in this, they could agree.
Erwing’s eyebrows rose. “So the rumors are true . . .”
“The rumors are just that,” Quinn said pointedly. “Rumors.”
A sick thrill entered Erwing’s eye as he leaned forward. “But there is a girl, and she does have raksasa blood, does she not?”
Lazarus’ hand beneath the table was rapidly approaching the apex of her thighs, as if trying to distract her. She waved him off using a tendril of fear, and his hand disappeared from her skin.
