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“Why do you want me to keep your magic?” he asks.
“Because it gets me in trouble.” Dressed, I sit down to style my hair by tightly wrapping it in a bun on top of my head. A spiderlike hair accessory clutches the side of the mirror. I use it to hold up my hair.
“Not that one,” the commander says. “Use regular pins and leave room for the crown.”
I run my finger over the Seelie crown. It’s a crown for neither the Summer nor Spring Court, a designer crown, but a crown worn by a Seelie queen, nevertheless. “I’m not supposed to wear this.”
“Put it on.”
“Are you trying to get me killed?” I ask, replacing the spider accessory with pins, then setting the golden crown on my head. I look regal, elegant, and proper, as if I hadn’t grown up playing in the dirt.
When I step outside, D’Artaron turns, the corner of his mouth tipping slightly. “You look lovely.”
He’s so gracious with compliments that I flush before returning one. “As do you, sir.” But that’s nothing unusual. The commander always looks as regal as any king.
“Have you decided what you’ll do with your magic before you see my king?”
“Surely you’re not afraid for your king.”
“Most certainly not. I’d eliminate you before you could hurt him.”
“Holy crap, D’Artaron, please do say exactly what’s on your mind.”
“That’s not what’s on my mind.”
I stare at him. Did he… Is he flirting? Is he referencing my little bathing adventure? Does he want me to reply? “Flirting with you, Commander, requires a manual.”
“I’m fond of manuals.”
“I’ll follow the rules you write in mine.”
Teal eyes crinkle at the corners as a smile tugs his lips. “Fuck.”
“Language,” I say, but I’m too excited to correct him.
He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me to him. One hand lifts my bottom, and before I can come to my senses, he’s kissing me, his tongue pushing inside my mouth, barging in there, requesting I let it in, not even trying to be gentle or kind.
I open my mouth, taste him, and my insides flare. I growl as he swirls his tongue inside my mouth and kisses me forcefully for so long that I lose track of time and space, and just when I think he’ll rip off my clothes and take me on all fours on the cold floor in the hallway, D’Artaron interlaces our fingers.
Hot pain sears my palm, and he swallows my screams. My magic fights to stay inside me while the commander is drawing it out. It feels like my soul is being ripped out of me, and I struggle against his embrace, but he only holds me tighter, kissing me passionately. I struggle over what to make of this moment. He’s taking my magic, ripping it away, while returning affection, giving me exactly what I want from him.
With each passing moment, I feel weaker and weaker until, finally, I surrender in his arms, going almost completely limp.
He kisses me slowly, then pats my head and lays it on his shoulder. “It’s over now. Your magic is mine to wield.”
Pained whimpers escape me, and when he sets me back on my feet, I wipe tears from my cheeks. My palm burns, but the flare is cooling as the circular metal he used to imprint something on our palms thuds to the ground, leaving a warm orange circle on our skin. The circle surrounds an engraving in a language I can’t read.
“What is this?” I ask.
“A sigil. A way for you to share your magic with me without me completely taking it from you. The magic flows between us. It gives me control, not possession.”
“So you didn’t take it?” The commander used my lust for him to distract me from feeling the pain of the burn. I don’t know if I should slap him or thank him.
He shakes his head. “One should never give up their magic.”
“What if I want to?”
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
