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“Carved, not born. Save for those few so long ago,” Jace says low as if it’s a reminder of something they’ve talked about before.
“The red gown will do for coronation,” the Spidress announces. “Once I’ve perfected it anyway. I’ll design another for presentation.” She gestures for her apprentice to hand clothing to me. Apparently, she won’t attempt getting between us and Rosemarie again. Smart seamstress. “I’ve spun a simple outfit for her as well as clothes to get her through training. I’ll have gear for the trials delivered tomorrow or the next day, depending on the complexity.”
“Make it durable,” I tell her. “She’ll need the armor.”
“What?” Rosemarie’s voice comes out on a squeak.
The Spidress ignores her. “Agreed. You can’t be too careful with Cutter’s candidate, and who knows what Mildrake will bring to compete. The gown,” she tells Rosemarie. “I’ll need it to begin alterations.”
Rosemarie snatches two garments from my hands and wiggles them up over her hips, shimmying the gown to rise with it as she goes without baring an inch of skin. I swallow my disappointment, then have to hold back a snarl when she turns to my brother for his help in stripping the gown the rest of the way off. He gets to see her breasts again before she tugs a top over them. Damn him.
In moments, she’s fully clothed, and I have to remind myself that I asked for her to have a full wardrobe. I can’t very well demand that she return the training gear just so I can see her naked again. No, I’ll have to earn that right.
I will.
I make a note to study the books in greater detail for examples on how to win her instead of focusing on the sexy parts of learning to please human women in bed. Or against a wall. On a floor before a fireplace. Maybe I could suggest this fireplace.
Or flying.
None of the books I found featured fucking in flight. If I can get her over her fear of heights, how might she feel about being weightless mid-orgasm?
The banging of the alarm gongs along the keep’s wall have me snapping to attention. My gaze meets Jace’s.
“What’s happening?” Rosemarie asks, her voice tight.
“The keep is under attack,” he tells her. “We have to go.”
She touches his wing, and jealousy spikes through me. I push down my resentment. He deserves her. She will redeem us whether she chooses me or not. Channeling the anger into rage for the fight, I move toward the door, not staying to see how else she might touch him. Or kiss him. The thought makes my wings snap until the lethal claws atop them are unleashed.
“Stay here,” I order her. “Darok,” I call to the orc. “Don’t leave her side.”
My blood courses hot enough from unrequited desire that I could take on a legion of demons alone. Whoever attacked will regret their decision. I’ll make sure of it.
18
ROSEMARIE
QUEEN OF WANDS: TAKE ACTION AND MAKE STUFF HAPPEN.
But Remember that Being a Bossy Bitch About It Will Make You Enemies.
The banging outside rings in my head like a phone alarm I can’t shut off. Huey flies in dizzying circles above me and chirps as though he’s telling me his opinions on the twins leaving. Or the bugs he ate. Or whatever crisis is playing out in his tiny head. With the owl, I can never tell, but he’s as loyal as he is adorable. In this weird world of strangers even freakier than my usual, that counts a thousand times over.
Darok steps next to me, the blade in his massive hand again, and I can’t help but be glad the orc’s on our side. He looks as though he would enjoy the fight and leave sobbing opponents in his wake. If green skin and tusks did it for me, then I could admit my guard’s handsome, but I obviously have a preference for blue skin and wings.
“Attacks happen a lot here?” I ask Darok, trying to keep my voice calm and failing—miserably. I sound like a squeaky toy on a helium high.
He grunts, the scar that cuts along his cheek bunching and an extra bit of tusk flashing with his snarl. Realizing that’s all the answer I’ll get from him, I glance to the Spidress to see if she’ll offer more info.
“Attacks happen often in the After Worlds,” she explains. “But not here in the Keep. No one is dumb enough to invade a fort of combat-happy gargoyles.”
“Looks like someone is,” I mutter. Huey stops spiraling to land on my shoulder.
The Spidress’s apprentices pack away her fabrics and threads, and I wonder if they’re leaving, but no, they settle around the food as though someone announced a snack break. The Spidress sits amid them, sinking low as if she’s dropping into a six-legged sumo squat. A long ribbon of silky thread comes spinning from beneath her. I jerk my gaze away, suddenly not wanting to know exactly which body part her web comes from.
Just when I thought I could handle being this close to a giant spider, nope.
“Shouldn’t we check on the twins?” I ask.
