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“Your request is denied.”
Very well. “If you predicted my arrival, then you should also have known I don’t take females, and this kind of welcome is unwelcome.” He opens his mouth as if to speak, but I shush him. “We are on the brink of conflict because you staged a coup and missed one of the targets. Now she’s back and taking the throne. That’s a lot to resolve without me having to kill you. Here I am with a proposition, and there you are, trying to distract me with females in heat.” I lean in. “A male who wants to be king cannot indulge in random females while also inviting the Spring queen to dinner. It is a poor power move in your situation since you need her favor to reign.”
“Why do I need her favor?”
“Because my king sent her here.” We both know he can’t rule without the Summer king’s approval.
His jaw works, and he drinks his bourbon without offering me one. While on duty, I’d refuse, but offering is common courtesy.
“Your king’s meddling is unwelcome.”
“Your opinion is unimportant.”
“Damn you, D’Artaron!” he shouts, swiping at me with a dagger from under the table. I grasp the blade and stop it just before it reaches my throat. The females scream and flee from the room, while Frederick struggles to cleave off my head.
He reaches for another dagger. I let it touch my throat, let it slice a bit. Blood spills. I feel it trickling over my skin. It’s been so very long since I’ve had the pleasure of a conflict, since anyone bled me and meant to kill me.
“You don’t make the rules,” he spits, his alcohol-laced breath hitting my face along with his saliva.
“I follow orders, and my orders are to place a queen upon the throne.”
“Over my dead body.” He presses the knife further, cutting deeper.
My arousal stirs, the fact that I must defend her with my life making me horny. I purr at him. “Careful what you say. Your dead body would be the easiest solution.”
“You can’t kill me. I have royal blood.”
“You have no heir and only average magic. How long do you think you’ll last without my king’s support? Not even a cycle. Your cousins will descend upon you, all claiming to have royal blood. They will figure out the Spring queen is the answer to their prayers, and they’ll propose to her, marry her, make heirs with her.” I swallow bile, the thought of her with another making it rise in my belly, but I push on. “The queen is more powerful than you, as powerful as any royal, and I’ll let you in on a secret.” I pause, then whisper, “I’m fond of her. So if you so much as look at her wrong, I’ll gouge out your eyes with a spoon and make you eat them.”
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll take the girl. Tonight. Over the dinner table.”
“You won’t be dining with her.”
“She’s getting dressed for our evening as we speak, and I’ll make sure you hear her scream when I fuck her.”
Red bleeds into my vision, my control shatters, and a rage I’ve never known before takes me. Horns sprout out of my head, my body explodes into a mass of muscle, and before I can stop it, I’m walking out of the male’s chambers carrying his tongue in my clenched fist.
22
CHLOE
It’s almost dinnertime.
I dress in the finest gown I can find that fits me from the late queen’s closet. But tightening my corset proves difficult. Claudette could’ve helped me with my makeup. And likely my hair. Most definitely with the dress.
And I shouldn’t have been so hard on the commander. He wants what’s best for me, and I should have thanked him for suggesting Claudette, not pulled rank on him right after he secured the Spring throne for me, effectively fighting my battles for me. King Et’enne said that I could be a queen or I could be dead. I chose the former.
With a frustrated sigh, I give up trying to secure my corset, and decide I’m going without. I wrap my breasts in a strip of cloth I found in the queen’s dresser, so at least they’re not moving, but I’m afraid that between the dress being several sizes too big for me and the lack of a proper corset, not to mention a proper hairdo or even nicely drawn makeup, I look like I’m going to a local park to meet up with Vallser Johans from down the street instead of to meet the Spring king. Even if he’s a self-proclaimed king.
When I leave my chambers, I expected the commander would escort me to dinner, but he’s nowhere to be found. Instead, a pair of guards I remember from the lineup on the lawn in the Summer Court follow me until I reach the royal dining room. There are several dining spaces, but Frederick meant for me to meet him in the private one.
The door opens.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt before stepping inside.
The guards follow me into a dimly lit dining space dominated by oversized portraits of various royals, a massive table, and a just-as-massive chandelier. The all-male staff, wearing deep green uniforms with purple gloves, surround the table. Half a dozen cooks with tall purple hats stand in an open kitchen at the far end of the room opposite the entrance.
Stringed instruments play at a hushed volume from the quartet that, I presume, hides behind the green curtains on the far left. They’re on the terrace overlooking the main palace gates and the vast greenery beyond. Unlike the Summer Court, the Spring Court’s palace is in the country, surrounded by the beauty of blooming flowers and the diversity of nature and animal life.
