For King and Corruption, page 2
She rolled over the edge and climbed to her feet, quickly assessing Risk’s watering eyes and bared teeth. Quinn held both hands up and approached in slow, measured steps.
“You did good, Risk, but we need to go now.” She spoke calmly, her voice not quite warm but at least not hard. She rested her palm over Risk’s shoulder and tilted her head.
This was a big moment.
The first time it happened, the breakdown that followed had been soul-wrenching. She didn’t desire to kill as Quinn did, but after months of being forced into similar situations, both knowingly and unknowingly, she was beginning to grow cold to it. Hardened.
Her bottom lip still quivered, but Risk pressed them together and sucked in a tight breath, blinking away the tears. Her unnaturally blue eyes rose from the bodies at her feet to Quinn’s face. She nodded. “I’m ready.”
Quinn didn’t insult her by coddling. She was still growing a backbone. She simply nodded and pointed over her sister’s shoulder. “The palace is that way. We’ll need to jump from here,” she motioned to the wall, “to there—and then take to the streets.” Quinn mimicked the movements with her fingers, pointing to the flat roof they’d have to jump to.
Risk took a deep breath and released it slowly, nodding her head. “Alright,” she said, “but this time you’re going first.”
Quinn quirked an eyebrow, the corner of her lips drawn up as she grasped two stone battlements and hauled herself up again. Standing at the top of the wall overlooking Leone, the only thing taller was the palace itself. In the center of the city, a building crafted from sandstone and slaves rose up. Whereas most rulers used marble or gold to show affluence, a past king chose elaboration to be what made it significant. It wasn’t glittering like Ilvas, nor was it foreboding like the temples in Liph. Jibreal favored marble columns and scaffolding. Bangratas preferred a more straightforward approach; castles filled with riches instead of the buildings themselves being grand.
It was only here in Leone that she had ever seen a monstrosity as beautiful as it was terrible.
She looked on it for only a moment before flinging herself off the height of the wall. The fall was a short thing. Her legs hit the hardened clay roof and bent, letting her roll the rest of the way so that she didn’t hurt herself.
Quinn stood and brushed the orangish-brown dust from her leathers. She turned her chin up to see Risk’s quivering form wavering on the ledge.
“Just jump,” she called up. Her sister leveled her with a sour look before bending her knees and leaping. While small and fast, her legs didn’t have enough muscle to put major strength behind the jump. Her boots skimmed the edge of the roof as she slid right over the side. Quinn’s stomach leapt into her chest as she ran to the edge.
A gray hand with black claws had embedded itself into the side of the building. It was the only thing stopping Risk from falling. Quinn leaned down and reached for her other hand. The sweat from her palms and dirt on Risk’s skin smeared everywhere as Quinn pulled her up from the ledge.
Risk flopped onto her stomach and let a grunt.
“Ugh,” she groaned. “One of these days you’re going to get me killed.”
Quinn snorted, pleased the earlier melancholy from killing had already left her. She turned, covering her eyes to shield them from the dying sun. The skies bled crimson and violet as she pointed to the tops of the houses. “If we take each of these down, we can get to the ground before nightfall and go the rest of the way on foot.”
“Sounds simple enough,” she said, climbing to her feet. She narrowed her eyes at Quinn and then out over the city. “What’s the catch?”
Quinn blew out a rough breath and walked to the edge of the roof. She flashed her a wicked grin and said, “The whole city will be looking for us.”
Then she stepped off the edge. The drop wasn’t nearly as steep, and she only needed to bend her knees, though the impact still jolted through her bones. Quinn repeated the action; Risk right behind her all the way down the side of the buildings to the roughly maintained streets below. Their footsteps were soft and sure as they snuck through the shadows of Leone, Quinn only bothering to mask them in an illusion when the palace stood before them.
They walked right through a group of guards, unseen to all. Risk clutched her hand and grit her teeth to keep from making a sound as they brushed too close to the men for her liking. Her irises had changed into cat-like slits, and black spots dotted the skin of her face in the lowlight.
They’d been close to men before. Quinn had made a point of it once Risk was well enough with a blade or her claws to defend herself. But the proximity always brought out the wild magic in her. This time it was the spots of a cheetah, and she no doubt would have speed beyond what even Quinn could keep up with if she chose to run. In the past, it had been other things. Wings. A tail. Claws. Hooves.
She’d never seen a beast tamer so strong that their very body changed around their fear, but it appeared that Risk was—because as surely as it happened, she also had zero control over it.
Quinn gripped her hand harder as they strode up the palace steps, filthy compared to the patrons milling about. Two wide double doors were open in a gesture of welcome, and while she knew it wasn’t for her alone—she liked to think so.
Inside, colorful tiles painted in images of the gods spanned the entire ceiling—only visible from the thousands of candles placed throughout. Quinn’s breath caught as she took in the foyer of the great palace—the eggshell-colored floors and dainty slippers that touched them. Every person in sight was dressed similarly, with rich fabrics fashioned in either dresses or tunic. She looked down at her own dirt-covered leathers and tugged the white cloth she’d worn around her own head away.
“We’re here,” Risk said. “Now what?”
Quinn slowly made her way through the nobles to come to stand between two immense doors. She recognized what lay beyond instantly.
The throne room.
“Now,” she said, “we make an entrance.”
Risk frowned, her eyebrows drawing together uneasily. Quinn pointed over to the corner of the room where food and drink were made available to the wealthy guests. Risk looked between her and it hesitantly.
“Are you sure—”
“Go. Wait over there and I’ll catch up once I pay my respects to the King.” Risk stole a glance across the room to the immense throne where a man of even greater power sat. She shuddered once and turned heel for the food, as Quinn knew she would.
It was only once Risk was out of her line of sight that she let the illusion masking her drop away. Several people who had been standing right next to her let out startled gasps. She let their surprise trickle through the room as whispers started, carrying to the throne rapidly.
Quinn looked up. Eyes black as Mazzulah’s heart and heated as the very sun looked upon her. The room was filled with people, nobles and servants, vassals like herself, and courtesans—and yet as she slowly made her way across the wide expanse—it was only them.
In the midst of the frivolity and merriment, a dark king looked upon her once more, and Quinn felt an echo of that unnamable emotion swell in her chest. Heart racing and blood pounding, she came to the bottom of the steps and started her ascent without waiting for permission.
He watched her, his face a cold mask of indifference—though his eyes told a different story. They told of the savage creature lying beneath, writhing to meet her in the middle. Her magic stirred, and when two guards attempted to intercept her she did nothing more than twist her fingers. Eyes still locked on him, she didn’t watch as they fell to their knees, gasping their pleas of forgiveness.
She ascended the steps to stand before him, and while the room had gone silent, there was a pounding in her ears that drowned it all out.
Her heart rioted in her chest, but her movements were still.
Five months had passed since she left him to do what she needed to do, and she’d returned to a different man. She’d returned to a king—to a crown.
Quinn sank to one knee—allowing Lazarus to decide what it was he wanted to do. A moment passed where no one said a word as he stared at her with the weight of the things they had done and left unsaid. He was wearing gloves now, but she saw the shadows of his souls struggling beneath the hem of his cuff. She doubted anyone else would notice, but that small slip in control was all she needed to know that nothing had changed.
“Your Grace,” a faceless, nameless voice called out from below. “Who is this woman?”
The corners of Lazarus’ mouth turned up as a cruel expression of sick delight crossed him. Lazarus extended his hand for her to kiss the golden insignia upon it. Quinn raised an eyebrow, pausing just long enough for him to know this act of subservience was only that. An act.
As her lips pressed against the cool metal, Lazarus spoke.
“Rise, Quinn Darkova, right-hand to the King.”
Mercurial Dispositions
“Everything is a game. You only lose when you think the game is over.”
— Lazarus Fierté, soul eater, King of Norcasta
* * *
The moment he saw her, everything in their vicinity vanished.
Like a bloodlion on a scent, his entire focus was on the woman dressed in leathers. Her lavender hair was pulled back in a haphazard braid, stiff ends sticking out where mud had hardened and cracked. Her skin, what was visible, had been covered in a light sheen of orangish-brown dust. She must have crossed the desert to return to him, which only piqued his curiosity about what exactly she’d been doing on the other side of the continent. Above all, it was her eyes that he focused on. She wore a skin of cream and ice and all things light, but even in the blue of her eyes there was an unmistakable darkness.
She was saevyana.
His cruel woman.
She drifted through the throne room without a care for how her appearance stood out; so stark in a place of rich fabric and bright colors. Without asking permission, she ascended the steps, disarming his guards without any effort at all. Magic wafted from her skin, midnight weeds and damp petals assaulting his senses. He inhaled, embracing the cold bite of fresh snow and brutal winters that always made him catch his breath.
She stood before him, and then, with a grace that was all her own, she dropped to one knee.
It was that single action that cemented something in him.
He’d known from the moment he laid eyes on her, beating a nobleman with his own whip, that he’d never let her go. But this . . . this was a different kind of feeling. Though she was the one on her knee, he felt leveled. It unsettled him how much power he’d not just handed over to her, but how much she’d taken—because he felt something far greater than possessiveness for the creature before him.
Lazarus extended his hand. Her eyes flashed, the blue illuminating the power she hid within. When she leaned forward to kiss the insignia on the ring, his groin stiffened.
“Rise, Quinn Darkova, right-hand to the King.”
She did as he said without turning to greet the eyes of the noblemen and women he had gathered tonight. Typical of Quinn. She had no desire to play games outside her own.
“It’s been a while, Lazarus,” she said, her gaze sweeping up to the hand-painted ceiling. She put one hand on her hip and the other came up for her to tap her bottom lip with her index finger. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” she added after a moment, only briefly turning those calculating eyes to the room beyond before settling them back on him. Lazarus remained silent, his hands gripping the armrests of his throne while he took in her movements.
She’d told him she was coming home a month ago.
It was uncanny timing that she picked this night of all nights to actually return.
The woman knew how to make an entrance.
“Quinn,” Draeven said, stepping out from the crowd and striding up the steps with a strong yet hurried gait. “We weren’t expecting you,” his left-hand started.
She turned, a wide smile spreading across her face. It was wicked, as always.
“My Lord Sunshine,” she declared. “I did send a messenger ahead of me, you know.” Several noblemen glanced up from the base of the stairs. A string of snickers made Draeven stiffen, and Lazarus noted the way her smile only grew.
Cruel, cruel woman . . .
Draeven’s eyes cut toward him. The stiff set of his lips said a great deal. “Draeven, if you could please entertain our guests. I think my right-hand and I need to have a word in private.”
The brief flash of annoyance morphed into steady resignation as Draeven nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Quinn looked between the two of them, her gaze growing shrewd. She didn’t say anything as Lazarus rose to his feet and placed a hand on her lower back, guiding her down the side of the stairs. Nobles stepped out of the way, and he couldn’t tell if it was from her expression or his own that they lowered their eyes as he passed by.
“Interesting company you’re keeping these days,” she said, eyeing a particular man who had a courtesan on each arm. They wore the golden collars of slavery. Her eyes turned glacial as her feet started to roll to a stop. Lazarus wasn’t a fool, and kept pushing her along to the very end of the hall. Her neck was craning back to watch the man with his two pleasure slaves when Lazarus opened the door to his study and ushered them both in.
It clicked shut, and with a snap of his wrist, the lock bolted, preventing anyone from entering.
She shook him off and started a slow perusal around the space. Her motions were that of someone curious, if casually so. Her eyes revealed the beast within.
“You left.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “I also came back.” Her nails trailed over the smooth wood surface of his desk as she stepped around it. The large cloth chair drew her attention as she settled into it, crossing her legs and resting her arms on the sides. Her fingers steepled together as she regarded him with indifference.
“After five months,” he replied.
She shrugged and then motioned to the door behind him. “You’ve clearly been keeping busy. I had things to attend to, and I returned when they were dealt with—just as I said I would.”
Lazarus’ blood heated from her attitude. He strode forward and put both hands on the desk, leaning forward. “Five months out of a five-year contract is a long time, Quinn. I’m adding it to your serving agreement.”
She lifted both eyebrows and said, “Is that so?”
“You don’t make the rules here, and while I might let you bend them, in the future, you need to seek permission before galivanting off to the other side of the continent.” She snorted. The pads of his fingers pressed down, curling slightly in agitation.
“I’m still doing work in your name, Lazarus. You know that, otherwise the firedrake’s magic would have killed me before I could set foot out of Liph.” She released her hands and instead chose to lean forward, uncrossing her legs.
“You disappeared without a word. Five months, Quinn. I’m not yielding on this,” he said. “You will not do so again.” She watched him intently for a moment before getting to her feet and leaning across his desk. Her nose brushed his as the barest hint of her lips grazed the corner of his mouth. From another woman, it would have been a daring move, but for Quinn it was chaste.
She breathed softly, the scent of her skin and magic filling his nostrils. Lazarus’ fingernails dug into the desk to stop himself from reaching for her.
“Are you sure about that?” she whispered. Her teeth trailed up his jaw. Warm breath fanned the inner shell of his ear as her tongue wet the lobe. The breath hissed through his teeth, and she bit down. Hard.
He groaned, and she released him, but he could feel the smile on her face as she pulled away.
Crimson dotted her lips.
His length stiffened further.
“Five months,” he replied. She smiled. It was anything but kind.
“Are you upset with me, Lazarus?” she asked, her voice taking on a dark edge. She slowly pulled away, walking the rest of the way around his desk again.
“I was,” he told her. She tilted her head, stopping before him. It was as if she hadn’t expected the truth. “I no longer am, but that doesn’t change my demand.”
“Hmm,” was all she said, leaning forward. She put one hand to his chest, and his heart began to beat wildly. “For it to go into effect, I have to agree—because I technically didn’t break your contract. Did I?” Her hand slid down his chest, over the muscles of his stomach, heading down further. He reached out, catching her by the wrist. She stilled.
“What are you doing?” he asked her, cursing himself for the huskiness that clogged his throat. Desire laced every fiber of his being.
Quinn tilted her head back to look him in the eye as she said, “You wish to punish me for it. The least I can do is make sure it’s a punishment we both enjoy.”
His breath halted in his chest as lust and longing pushed him closer to the edge.
“I never said this was a punishment,” he replied through gritted teeth.
“You didn’t need to,” she answered. Her other hand slipped between them, coming to rest over his shaft. She rubbed up and down slowly, applying not near enough pressure for the torture she was inflicting on him.
“Five months,” he repeated, though his resolve was weakening. He’d rehearsed how this would go for months, and yet within minutes of her return, she’d pushed him to the edge. Anger flared in his veins. He opened his mouth to speak when she arched on her toes and pressed her lips to his.
Her mouth opened as she kissed him, her tongue darting out to twine around his. She stepped closer, flattening her palm against his shaft. Quinn stroked up and down while kissing him with a fierceness that blew away his memories of that night.
