For King and Corruption, page 3
She pulled away just as suddenly and whispered, “I have a better idea.” Her impish little tongue darted out, wetting her lips. “I take you between my lips and let you have your wicked way, and we call it even.”
Lazarus groaned. “I can’t negotiate with you like this, Quinn.”
“Why not?” she asked. “You have before. A punishment is a punishment, Lazarus.”
“I never said it was a punishment,” he bit out sharply, stepping away from her wandering hands. He turned away, trying to calm the racing of his heart. The ache in his shaft was becoming more pressing by the second.
“I see.” Her voice was icy. Cold. It stirred up the rage in him as much as the desire. “You’re a king now. It was okay to take me when you were simply a nobleman, but now you let the expectations of lesser men guide you. How . . . pitiful.”
Lazarus whipped around, his fists clenched and jaw set as he regarded her closed off form. She leaned against his desk, watching him, both arms crossed over her chest.
He had to remind himself that there was no way she could know how close to the truth she really was. It was as if she plucked the thoughts from his very mind.
He despised it. He despised her.
An even greater desire rose up in him.
She might very well get what she asked for.
“I am King now. I bend to no one. I yield for no one. Not even you, saevyana,” he growled in a rough voice. Her expression didn’t change, and it only served to piss him off more.
“I come back after five months and you’re holding a party for all of those pathetic skeevs. They flaunt their slaves and wealth in your halls, and you pay for them to do it. The man I knew didn’t bend a knee for anything less than what he was getting in return.” A ghost of a smile graced her lips and it didn’t take him long to realize where her mind had gone. “So tell me, Lazarus, how you’re above all else when the metal on your head keeps you bound to their whims?”
“You come into this palace and mean to insult me—”
“I don’t mean to, Lazarus. I am. But what do I know? I’m just a vassal.” Her eyes dropped to his erection and then rose back to his own. She held them for several seconds before turning to leave, and he wasn’t sure what did it then. Whether it was the audacity with which she mocked him, or the way in which she meant to dismiss him.
Her arm brushed his, and his fingers snapped out, curling around her bicep.
Quinn paused.
“Get on your knees.”
He could have sworn there was a hint of a smile as she turned back around and kneeled before him. The position of her beneath him filled Lazarus with a sick sort of joy as he tugged at the laces of his trousers. There was a pounding in his head as he pulled his length free.
“I’ve told you before that insulting me is unacceptable. I am King—and no one, not the lords, not the ladies, not the Gods themselves, and certainly not my vassals will stand in the halls and talk to me as you do. The five months was not a punishment. It was payment for the five that I gave you. This—this will be a punishment. Do you accept, Quinn?”
Quinn looked up at him, her blue eyes sharp and clear as she reached up to grab his shaft. The palm of her hand was warm against him as she stroked.
“No,” she breathed. “I don’t.”
Shock radiated through him. Her lips parted, and she pulled his shaft to their welcoming plumpness. At the first lick of her tongue, his hips arched. She quirked an eyebrow up.
“I please you because I wish to. I came back because I chose to. You punish me because I let you. This isn’t a punishment for me, Lazarus. I know what I desire. This is for you.”
He buried his fingers in her braid roughly, getting a firm grip on her head before thrusting forward. Her mouth opened further to allow entry as she took him in. Lazarus breathed harshly. He hadn’t touched a woman since her, despite the many that came to him within the court before, and more so now that he was king. He had no intention of telling her that, nor would he admit that she was his very weakness.
He pulled back and pushed forward, burying himself deeper in her. She choked once, saliva coating him and making the warmth of her mouth now as slippery as her heat. His hips started a rhythm, pushing and pulling and thrusting into her—all the while Quinn watched him take his pleasure between her lips.
She somehow managed to look like she was still winning this power struggle between them, even without words. That infuriated him, and Lazarus pushed further, burying himself to the hilt. She choked again, her eyes watering, but not once did she try to pull away as he held her fast. Within minutes, his release was upon him. Sweat dotted his brow as Lazarus groaned, pumping shallowly into her warmth. The pounding had reached an all-time high as all noise was blocked out by his own driving desire to dominate her. With one final thrust, the dam in him burst as he let go. His liquid flooded her mouth, but Quinn swallowed it down and kept swallowing until his motions grew still.
Half limp, but still burning inside, Lazarus pulled his shaft from her mouth and turned to tuck it away. When Lazarus looked back, she was already on her feet, arms crossed over her chest. “While I was away, I arranged for both the leaders of Bangratas and Jibreal to send ambassadors to hear you out. The head I sent was a messenger from Amelia Reinhart, the late King’s first-born child. They’d been in the process of negotiating an alliance of their own when the messenger disappeared.” Lazarus stood, stunned. Anger fizzled through his veins as she continued. “Contrary to what you’ve convinced yourself, I still acted in your best interest. I left with the promise to return, and I have.” She sighed, stepping toward the door, and this time he didn’t stop her. “You’re angry, but you’ll get over it. I have a vested interest in this court, but an even greater one in its king. Draeven has convinced you to give too much. I am back to remind them that you are king.”
Quinn reached for the lock on the door, and Lazarus asked, “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
She looked back at him, as arrogant as she’d been when she made her entrance before.
“You wanted me to become a monster, and I have,” she said, the corner of her mouth turning up. “What remains to be seen is whose monster I will be. Yours,” her eyes slid sideways toward the door, “or theirs?”
Lazarus didn’t say a word as she stepped out of his study and into the hallway beyond. He had wanted her to come back, but he didn’t think to predict the damage that would be left in her wake.
Quinn reveled in destruction.
Now he had to find a way to ensure it wasn’t his own.
A Wary Encounter
“Each man will have a reckoning. Some in the form of tasks, others in the form of people.”
— Draeven Adelmar, rage thief, left-hand to the King of Norcasta
* * *
Quinn had returned. Lazarus’ eyes lit up like the fires of the dark realm had taken hold of him as she strode through the ongoing party—one of many the new King had thrown to appease the spoiled, petulant southern lords of Norcasta. Draeven sucked in a breath as she approached and bent low, bowing her head with a wicked grin upon her lips. He shook his head. The woman was a menace, but still, Draeven was glad she was back. Her return would surely mean that Lazarus would stop his incessant sullenness. Besides, things were always a bit more interesting when Quinn was around.
Brameer, a nasally country lord, was the first and only one to break the silence that had befallen the room as he inquired to who the woman was. Who was the woman who walked through them as though she saw nothing but Lazarus? Who was the woman that smelled of blood and decay and smiled with a dangerous gleam in her eyes?
Lazarus answered the questions in the minds of all those present as he spoke. “Rise, Quinn Darkova, right-hand to the King.”
Eyes widened around him. Several of the lords looked to him for confirmation, as they often did when Lazarus’ actions or words confused them. Draeven sighed and nodded, and their eyes returned to the King as he rose from his seat and reached down for the fear twister that had done more than twist him up inside.
Lazarus’ expression hardened as Quinn rose and looked to him. “Quinn,” Draeven said. “We weren’t expecting you.”
“My Lord Sunshine,” she said, a twisted smirk on her face. “I did send a messenger ahead of me, you know.”
Draeven scowled, remembering with shuddering horror. His nostrils still burned at the scent of the severed head. With a strained look, Draeven frowned at her. A few snickers erupted behind him, but he paid them no mind.
Lazarus placed a hand on the small of Quinn’s back and leveled his left-hand with an intent look. “Draeven, if you could please entertain our guests. I think my right-hand and I need to have a word in private.”
Bowing his head slightly, he replied. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Draeven turned as Lazarus nodded before urging the lavender-haired demon away—out of the room, no doubt to a more secluded area in which he would punish her. Draeven snorted to himself, knowing the truth. No matter how angry the man was at her, he doubted there was anything he could do or threaten her with that would truly frighten her. Draeven doubted that the woman was afraid of anything at this point. She seemed beyond fear. He wondered if it came from her magic, or if her magic chose her for that reason.
Once Lazarus was gone from the room, the lords and even the ladies accompanying them converged on him.
“Who was that woman, Lord Adelmar?”
“She was N’skari, was she not?”
“I’ve never seen an N’skari this far south. I wonder . . .”
“How long has the woman known the King?”
“Is she blackmailing him, perhaps?”
“The repulsiveness of her looks, can you believe . . .?”
“I swear I’ve never seen such an uncouth entrance . . .”
Draeven huffed a breath, hating Lazarus and Quinn for leaving him to deal with the noblemen and women, before plastering a fake smile on his face and whirling to answer their questions.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please calm yourselves,” Draeven said with a pleasant tone. “Lady Darkova is the King’s right-hand, as you heard. She has been away several months on a mission of the utmost importance.” A mission in driving his master insane, he thought. But Draeven didn’t voice that little tidbit.
“But she—!”
Draeven lifted a hand and stopped the next onslaught of questions and hurled confusion as he spotted a creature several paces behind them all. Had he not been standing facing her, Draeven might have missed her for a wallflower—one of the many plain-faced young ladies who stood in the background, too shy or unwilling to enter the fray before him. But she was no simpleton.
Draeven nodded for Lorraine, who stood—as she usually did—within calling distance. “Please calm yourselves, my lords and ladies,” Draeven said as Lorraine nodded and came forward. “Enjoy the festivities. Drink and dance to your hearts’ content. I’m sure that on the morrow, His Grace will answer all questions.”
Some seemed to take his words at face value, nodding and moving away. For the few who were less than appeased—Lorraine stepped forward with the perfect distraction.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced with an easy smile on her face—one much more genuine than Draeven’s own. “His Grace has elected to gift all attendees this evening with a show. Please follow me to the gentlemen’s lounge for an enticing display of unusual arts.”
“Unusual arts, you say?” Brameer repeated, firmly bound by curiosity as Lorraine led them away.
Unusual arts, indeed. Lazarus had invited a small party of acrobats and magicians from Dumas to attend to his guests for this party. They had just been about to announce it before Quinn’s arrival. Draeven sighed in relief as Lorraine and the others disappeared from the room, following her to the setup the group had prepared beforehand.
His attention switched back to the woman he’d noticed from across the room, but she was gone from the place he’d spotted her before. With a small frown, he shifted through the remainder of the crowd, heading for the last area he’d seen her. She wasn’t hard to find again, her gray-toned skin and onyx horns marked her as different from the rest.
Those that noticed her backed away with confusion and more than a little fear. Draeven knew exactly who this woman was, despite the fact that he’d never actually seen her before now. It was Quinn’s sister, the half-raksasa. The tainted.
“Excuse me, Miss—” Draeven reached out, intending to halt her as she moved through the crowd, avoiding touching anyone.
One moment he had his hand outstretched, reaching for her shoulder, and the next he was bent over, his arm yanked behind his back.
“No touching,” the woman hissed in his ear. Her hands trembled against him as she held his arm bent at an awkwardly painful angle. Then, just as suddenly as he’d been grabbed, he was released.
Draeven straightened, blinking in confusion as he rotated his shoulder, urging feeling back in the limb of his arm. “My apologies,” he said as he lifted his eyes and froze.
Twin pools of ice-cold frost met his gaze. Impossibly light, with just a hint of blue, the woman’s face centered around her eyes. They spoke of darkness witnessed and experienced, of pain felt, of a rage so deep within that there was no way—even with his own power—he would be able to steal it all.
“You’re Risk Darkova?”
The woman paused as she backed away from him, narrowing her gaze on him. “Who asks?” she demanded.
Taking in a breath and forcing his eyes away from hers as he took the rest of her in, Draeven gestured to himself. “I’m a friend of Quinn’s,” he said. It seemed the safest explanation of who he was. “I’m Lazarus’ left-hand. We’ve never met, but I’ve heard of you.”
The suspicious look in her eyes didn’t lessen. Not even a little bit. “What do you want?” she asked.
Draeven watched the way she moved. It was clear that she was uncomfortable with his nearness, so he took a step back before speaking. “I saw you from across the room,” he explained. “I assume you came with Quinn?” She nodded, her eyes tracking him with distrust. When one of the guests passed behind her, she whirled sharply, but they were already well on their way—not even aware of the glint of wildness in her eyes that had her turning abruptly back to him and moving even further from him and the throng of people at his back. “You’re not comfortable around crowds, are you?”
“No.” She glanced to the side, looking for exit, he assumed.
“Why don’t I take you to Quinn’s chambers?” Draeven offered politely. “Lazarus had them prepared months ago for when she’d returned. We weren’t sure if you’d be coming with her, but it’s large enough for both of you until—”
“Will it get me away from here?” she demanded, interrupting him.
“Yes, her chambers are on the other side of the—”
“Fine. Let’s go. You can lead the way.” She gestured for him to move, wary as she watched him. Draeven got the distinct impression that she wouldn’t trust him behind her, so he simply nodded and moved ahead.
Quinn’s suite was far from the ballroom where they’d left the court musicians and Lorraine to entertain the guests. As Draeven walked along, every once in a while he’d glance back, noting that Risk watched him with a focused, serious gaze and one hand on her side, fingers clutched right over the hilt of a dagger.
Gray spots danced across her knuckles as she tightened her hold.
Draeven turned back, but not before he saw the way her spots had grown, more cropping up along her wrist and forearm. Very interesting, he thought. He hadn’t met another beast tamer since his friend Haspati.
“Here we are,” Draeven finally announced, pivoting with a flourish and gesturing to the grand oak door. Beyond it was a suite style room, large enough for a Queen, not that Quinn would ever take that position or admire the lavishness. But as Draeven lifted his eyes to meet Risk’s once more, he wondered if her sister would appreciate it.
Risk glared at him as she sidled past. Before she could open the door, Draeven remembered his manners. He’d been far too caught up in her eyes. He jumped forward and turned the knob, only to realize that Risk had her dagger out and pressed to his throat.
That wildness in her eyes turned to slitted fury. The blue morphed into a cat-like gold as she hissed at him. Draeven went still, judging her nearness to insanity. Raising his hands as slowly as possible, mimicking the gentling nature that Haspati had taught him with animals, Draeven released a quiet breath.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not a threat. I mean you no harm.”
Glaring at him, Risk pressed her blade up even further until the edge of it just nicked him. He felt the warmth of blood ooze from a tiny sliver of a cut—barely larger than anything he might have done while shaving. Then the blade was gone, and she was on the other side of the door.
“Perhaps I could—” he started.
The door slammed shut.
His whole body sagged ,and then with a curious smile, Draeven lifted his fingers to the bead of blood that had welled up at his throat. He chuckled again.
“Another time,” he whispered as he turned and walked away.
Penchant for Peril
“Trust is rarely, if ever, freely given. Everything has a price.”
— Quinn Darkova, fear twister, right-hand to the King of Norcasta
* * *
“This heat is stifling,” Risk said as she sat by the window. A flat rock scraped against her dagger, base to tip, as she scowled into the courtyard below.
Quinn cracked her neck and stretched, wondering where Lorraine would be at this time of day. “Perhaps you should go out, then,” Quinn suggested. “Get out of the room. You’ve been in here since we got here. You’re going to need to eat at some point.”
“You brought me dinner,” Risk replied. “I wouldn’t eat anything you didn’t bring me anyway. I don’t trust these people.” Her scowl deepened as she saw something beyond the glass pane that seemed to irritate her further. Quinn paused and lifted a brow at her sister as she accidentally nicked herself on her own blade. “Blast!” Risk stuck her thumb in her mouth, keeping her eyes trained on whatever was happening outside.
Lazarus groaned. “I can’t negotiate with you like this, Quinn.”
“Why not?” she asked. “You have before. A punishment is a punishment, Lazarus.”
“I never said it was a punishment,” he bit out sharply, stepping away from her wandering hands. He turned away, trying to calm the racing of his heart. The ache in his shaft was becoming more pressing by the second.
“I see.” Her voice was icy. Cold. It stirred up the rage in him as much as the desire. “You’re a king now. It was okay to take me when you were simply a nobleman, but now you let the expectations of lesser men guide you. How . . . pitiful.”
Lazarus whipped around, his fists clenched and jaw set as he regarded her closed off form. She leaned against his desk, watching him, both arms crossed over her chest.
He had to remind himself that there was no way she could know how close to the truth she really was. It was as if she plucked the thoughts from his very mind.
He despised it. He despised her.
An even greater desire rose up in him.
She might very well get what she asked for.
“I am King now. I bend to no one. I yield for no one. Not even you, saevyana,” he growled in a rough voice. Her expression didn’t change, and it only served to piss him off more.
“I come back after five months and you’re holding a party for all of those pathetic skeevs. They flaunt their slaves and wealth in your halls, and you pay for them to do it. The man I knew didn’t bend a knee for anything less than what he was getting in return.” A ghost of a smile graced her lips and it didn’t take him long to realize where her mind had gone. “So tell me, Lazarus, how you’re above all else when the metal on your head keeps you bound to their whims?”
“You come into this palace and mean to insult me—”
“I don’t mean to, Lazarus. I am. But what do I know? I’m just a vassal.” Her eyes dropped to his erection and then rose back to his own. She held them for several seconds before turning to leave, and he wasn’t sure what did it then. Whether it was the audacity with which she mocked him, or the way in which she meant to dismiss him.
Her arm brushed his, and his fingers snapped out, curling around her bicep.
Quinn paused.
“Get on your knees.”
He could have sworn there was a hint of a smile as she turned back around and kneeled before him. The position of her beneath him filled Lazarus with a sick sort of joy as he tugged at the laces of his trousers. There was a pounding in his head as he pulled his length free.
“I’ve told you before that insulting me is unacceptable. I am King—and no one, not the lords, not the ladies, not the Gods themselves, and certainly not my vassals will stand in the halls and talk to me as you do. The five months was not a punishment. It was payment for the five that I gave you. This—this will be a punishment. Do you accept, Quinn?”
Quinn looked up at him, her blue eyes sharp and clear as she reached up to grab his shaft. The palm of her hand was warm against him as she stroked.
“No,” she breathed. “I don’t.”
Shock radiated through him. Her lips parted, and she pulled his shaft to their welcoming plumpness. At the first lick of her tongue, his hips arched. She quirked an eyebrow up.
“I please you because I wish to. I came back because I chose to. You punish me because I let you. This isn’t a punishment for me, Lazarus. I know what I desire. This is for you.”
He buried his fingers in her braid roughly, getting a firm grip on her head before thrusting forward. Her mouth opened further to allow entry as she took him in. Lazarus breathed harshly. He hadn’t touched a woman since her, despite the many that came to him within the court before, and more so now that he was king. He had no intention of telling her that, nor would he admit that she was his very weakness.
He pulled back and pushed forward, burying himself deeper in her. She choked once, saliva coating him and making the warmth of her mouth now as slippery as her heat. His hips started a rhythm, pushing and pulling and thrusting into her—all the while Quinn watched him take his pleasure between her lips.
She somehow managed to look like she was still winning this power struggle between them, even without words. That infuriated him, and Lazarus pushed further, burying himself to the hilt. She choked again, her eyes watering, but not once did she try to pull away as he held her fast. Within minutes, his release was upon him. Sweat dotted his brow as Lazarus groaned, pumping shallowly into her warmth. The pounding had reached an all-time high as all noise was blocked out by his own driving desire to dominate her. With one final thrust, the dam in him burst as he let go. His liquid flooded her mouth, but Quinn swallowed it down and kept swallowing until his motions grew still.
Half limp, but still burning inside, Lazarus pulled his shaft from her mouth and turned to tuck it away. When Lazarus looked back, she was already on her feet, arms crossed over her chest. “While I was away, I arranged for both the leaders of Bangratas and Jibreal to send ambassadors to hear you out. The head I sent was a messenger from Amelia Reinhart, the late King’s first-born child. They’d been in the process of negotiating an alliance of their own when the messenger disappeared.” Lazarus stood, stunned. Anger fizzled through his veins as she continued. “Contrary to what you’ve convinced yourself, I still acted in your best interest. I left with the promise to return, and I have.” She sighed, stepping toward the door, and this time he didn’t stop her. “You’re angry, but you’ll get over it. I have a vested interest in this court, but an even greater one in its king. Draeven has convinced you to give too much. I am back to remind them that you are king.”
Quinn reached for the lock on the door, and Lazarus asked, “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
She looked back at him, as arrogant as she’d been when she made her entrance before.
“You wanted me to become a monster, and I have,” she said, the corner of her mouth turning up. “What remains to be seen is whose monster I will be. Yours,” her eyes slid sideways toward the door, “or theirs?”
Lazarus didn’t say a word as she stepped out of his study and into the hallway beyond. He had wanted her to come back, but he didn’t think to predict the damage that would be left in her wake.
Quinn reveled in destruction.
Now he had to find a way to ensure it wasn’t his own.
A Wary Encounter
“Each man will have a reckoning. Some in the form of tasks, others in the form of people.”
— Draeven Adelmar, rage thief, left-hand to the King of Norcasta
* * *
Quinn had returned. Lazarus’ eyes lit up like the fires of the dark realm had taken hold of him as she strode through the ongoing party—one of many the new King had thrown to appease the spoiled, petulant southern lords of Norcasta. Draeven sucked in a breath as she approached and bent low, bowing her head with a wicked grin upon her lips. He shook his head. The woman was a menace, but still, Draeven was glad she was back. Her return would surely mean that Lazarus would stop his incessant sullenness. Besides, things were always a bit more interesting when Quinn was around.
Brameer, a nasally country lord, was the first and only one to break the silence that had befallen the room as he inquired to who the woman was. Who was the woman who walked through them as though she saw nothing but Lazarus? Who was the woman that smelled of blood and decay and smiled with a dangerous gleam in her eyes?
Lazarus answered the questions in the minds of all those present as he spoke. “Rise, Quinn Darkova, right-hand to the King.”
Eyes widened around him. Several of the lords looked to him for confirmation, as they often did when Lazarus’ actions or words confused them. Draeven sighed and nodded, and their eyes returned to the King as he rose from his seat and reached down for the fear twister that had done more than twist him up inside.
Lazarus’ expression hardened as Quinn rose and looked to him. “Quinn,” Draeven said. “We weren’t expecting you.”
“My Lord Sunshine,” she said, a twisted smirk on her face. “I did send a messenger ahead of me, you know.”
Draeven scowled, remembering with shuddering horror. His nostrils still burned at the scent of the severed head. With a strained look, Draeven frowned at her. A few snickers erupted behind him, but he paid them no mind.
Lazarus placed a hand on the small of Quinn’s back and leveled his left-hand with an intent look. “Draeven, if you could please entertain our guests. I think my right-hand and I need to have a word in private.”
Bowing his head slightly, he replied. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Draeven turned as Lazarus nodded before urging the lavender-haired demon away—out of the room, no doubt to a more secluded area in which he would punish her. Draeven snorted to himself, knowing the truth. No matter how angry the man was at her, he doubted there was anything he could do or threaten her with that would truly frighten her. Draeven doubted that the woman was afraid of anything at this point. She seemed beyond fear. He wondered if it came from her magic, or if her magic chose her for that reason.
Once Lazarus was gone from the room, the lords and even the ladies accompanying them converged on him.
“Who was that woman, Lord Adelmar?”
“She was N’skari, was she not?”
“I’ve never seen an N’skari this far south. I wonder . . .”
“How long has the woman known the King?”
“Is she blackmailing him, perhaps?”
“The repulsiveness of her looks, can you believe . . .?”
“I swear I’ve never seen such an uncouth entrance . . .”
Draeven huffed a breath, hating Lazarus and Quinn for leaving him to deal with the noblemen and women, before plastering a fake smile on his face and whirling to answer their questions.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please calm yourselves,” Draeven said with a pleasant tone. “Lady Darkova is the King’s right-hand, as you heard. She has been away several months on a mission of the utmost importance.” A mission in driving his master insane, he thought. But Draeven didn’t voice that little tidbit.
“But she—!”
Draeven lifted a hand and stopped the next onslaught of questions and hurled confusion as he spotted a creature several paces behind them all. Had he not been standing facing her, Draeven might have missed her for a wallflower—one of the many plain-faced young ladies who stood in the background, too shy or unwilling to enter the fray before him. But she was no simpleton.
Draeven nodded for Lorraine, who stood—as she usually did—within calling distance. “Please calm yourselves, my lords and ladies,” Draeven said as Lorraine nodded and came forward. “Enjoy the festivities. Drink and dance to your hearts’ content. I’m sure that on the morrow, His Grace will answer all questions.”
Some seemed to take his words at face value, nodding and moving away. For the few who were less than appeased—Lorraine stepped forward with the perfect distraction.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced with an easy smile on her face—one much more genuine than Draeven’s own. “His Grace has elected to gift all attendees this evening with a show. Please follow me to the gentlemen’s lounge for an enticing display of unusual arts.”
“Unusual arts, you say?” Brameer repeated, firmly bound by curiosity as Lorraine led them away.
Unusual arts, indeed. Lazarus had invited a small party of acrobats and magicians from Dumas to attend to his guests for this party. They had just been about to announce it before Quinn’s arrival. Draeven sighed in relief as Lorraine and the others disappeared from the room, following her to the setup the group had prepared beforehand.
His attention switched back to the woman he’d noticed from across the room, but she was gone from the place he’d spotted her before. With a small frown, he shifted through the remainder of the crowd, heading for the last area he’d seen her. She wasn’t hard to find again, her gray-toned skin and onyx horns marked her as different from the rest.
Those that noticed her backed away with confusion and more than a little fear. Draeven knew exactly who this woman was, despite the fact that he’d never actually seen her before now. It was Quinn’s sister, the half-raksasa. The tainted.
“Excuse me, Miss—” Draeven reached out, intending to halt her as she moved through the crowd, avoiding touching anyone.
One moment he had his hand outstretched, reaching for her shoulder, and the next he was bent over, his arm yanked behind his back.
“No touching,” the woman hissed in his ear. Her hands trembled against him as she held his arm bent at an awkwardly painful angle. Then, just as suddenly as he’d been grabbed, he was released.
Draeven straightened, blinking in confusion as he rotated his shoulder, urging feeling back in the limb of his arm. “My apologies,” he said as he lifted his eyes and froze.
Twin pools of ice-cold frost met his gaze. Impossibly light, with just a hint of blue, the woman’s face centered around her eyes. They spoke of darkness witnessed and experienced, of pain felt, of a rage so deep within that there was no way—even with his own power—he would be able to steal it all.
“You’re Risk Darkova?”
The woman paused as she backed away from him, narrowing her gaze on him. “Who asks?” she demanded.
Taking in a breath and forcing his eyes away from hers as he took the rest of her in, Draeven gestured to himself. “I’m a friend of Quinn’s,” he said. It seemed the safest explanation of who he was. “I’m Lazarus’ left-hand. We’ve never met, but I’ve heard of you.”
The suspicious look in her eyes didn’t lessen. Not even a little bit. “What do you want?” she asked.
Draeven watched the way she moved. It was clear that she was uncomfortable with his nearness, so he took a step back before speaking. “I saw you from across the room,” he explained. “I assume you came with Quinn?” She nodded, her eyes tracking him with distrust. When one of the guests passed behind her, she whirled sharply, but they were already well on their way—not even aware of the glint of wildness in her eyes that had her turning abruptly back to him and moving even further from him and the throng of people at his back. “You’re not comfortable around crowds, are you?”
“No.” She glanced to the side, looking for exit, he assumed.
“Why don’t I take you to Quinn’s chambers?” Draeven offered politely. “Lazarus had them prepared months ago for when she’d returned. We weren’t sure if you’d be coming with her, but it’s large enough for both of you until—”
“Will it get me away from here?” she demanded, interrupting him.
“Yes, her chambers are on the other side of the—”
“Fine. Let’s go. You can lead the way.” She gestured for him to move, wary as she watched him. Draeven got the distinct impression that she wouldn’t trust him behind her, so he simply nodded and moved ahead.
Quinn’s suite was far from the ballroom where they’d left the court musicians and Lorraine to entertain the guests. As Draeven walked along, every once in a while he’d glance back, noting that Risk watched him with a focused, serious gaze and one hand on her side, fingers clutched right over the hilt of a dagger.
Gray spots danced across her knuckles as she tightened her hold.
Draeven turned back, but not before he saw the way her spots had grown, more cropping up along her wrist and forearm. Very interesting, he thought. He hadn’t met another beast tamer since his friend Haspati.
“Here we are,” Draeven finally announced, pivoting with a flourish and gesturing to the grand oak door. Beyond it was a suite style room, large enough for a Queen, not that Quinn would ever take that position or admire the lavishness. But as Draeven lifted his eyes to meet Risk’s once more, he wondered if her sister would appreciate it.
Risk glared at him as she sidled past. Before she could open the door, Draeven remembered his manners. He’d been far too caught up in her eyes. He jumped forward and turned the knob, only to realize that Risk had her dagger out and pressed to his throat.
That wildness in her eyes turned to slitted fury. The blue morphed into a cat-like gold as she hissed at him. Draeven went still, judging her nearness to insanity. Raising his hands as slowly as possible, mimicking the gentling nature that Haspati had taught him with animals, Draeven released a quiet breath.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not a threat. I mean you no harm.”
Glaring at him, Risk pressed her blade up even further until the edge of it just nicked him. He felt the warmth of blood ooze from a tiny sliver of a cut—barely larger than anything he might have done while shaving. Then the blade was gone, and she was on the other side of the door.
“Perhaps I could—” he started.
The door slammed shut.
His whole body sagged ,and then with a curious smile, Draeven lifted his fingers to the bead of blood that had welled up at his throat. He chuckled again.
“Another time,” he whispered as he turned and walked away.
Penchant for Peril
“Trust is rarely, if ever, freely given. Everything has a price.”
— Quinn Darkova, fear twister, right-hand to the King of Norcasta
* * *
“This heat is stifling,” Risk said as she sat by the window. A flat rock scraped against her dagger, base to tip, as she scowled into the courtyard below.
Quinn cracked her neck and stretched, wondering where Lorraine would be at this time of day. “Perhaps you should go out, then,” Quinn suggested. “Get out of the room. You’ve been in here since we got here. You’re going to need to eat at some point.”
“You brought me dinner,” Risk replied. “I wouldn’t eat anything you didn’t bring me anyway. I don’t trust these people.” Her scowl deepened as she saw something beyond the glass pane that seemed to irritate her further. Quinn paused and lifted a brow at her sister as she accidentally nicked herself on her own blade. “Blast!” Risk stuck her thumb in her mouth, keeping her eyes trained on whatever was happening outside.
