“Oh, I just meant Nienna is quite lovely.” He shrugged, his gaze dropping back to the letter he was writing. “She’s got her wits about her, that one.”
“She’s quick,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.
He was fishing, and we both knew it.
He shifted, his chair creaking as he sighed. “I’m glad she can relax here. She is like you, bearing the burden of her kingdom even as it threatens to crush her. Pity she’s bound to your son.”
“Pity,” I echoed, resting my head against the couch cushion. I drank far too much mead last night. “Pity will save Radaan.”
“No, you saved us, Kallias.” Clay clicked his tongue, shuffling the papers on his desk. “Her dragons may protect our borders, but you secured them.”
I grunted, the familiar bitterness twisting in my chest at the reminder. “The marriage to Tallon secures them. That’s all that matters.”
Clay’s lips pressed into a thin line as he gazed out the window, sunlight illuminating the hard lines of his face. “She’d make a magnificent queen,” he murmured.
“Would?” My voice carried an edge, and I leaned forward. “She will.”
His gaze grew distant, and he rested his chin on his hand. “Sheisa queen. The kind songs are written about. If only the king would accept her.”
I stilled, the air between us heavy with unsaid truths. Clay couldn’t be speaking of me. It was Tallon who needed to accept her. Not me. Never me.
“Gayle seems to enjoy her company,” I said, the words edged with irritation.
His persistence grated on me. My thoughts already tormented me with images of her—alone in bed, the sheets tangled around her. No guards patrolled our halls. Greaves wasn’t here to talk sense into me. That absence had led me here, to Clay’s study, where a steaming cup of kahve sat untouched by my side. I needed a distraction, something to pull my mind from her.
“She does!” Clay snapped back to the conversation, swiveling in his chair to face me. His excitement spilled into the air. “In fact, she’s organized a Sol dance!”
“Nienna will love that,” I murmured, more to myself than him. The Sol dance wasn’t just tradition—it was art, raw and untamed. Every movement spoke of passion, like wind bending the treetops or fire licking at dry wood. It had a wild beauty she would admire. She’d relish seeing the mountain folk, learning their culture.
“She’s agreed to dance,” he added with a sly grin.
I choked on my kahve, the heat burning my throat. “Nienna’sdancing?” I managed, gripping the mug as if it could steady me.
“Oh, she is quite interested!” Clay said, his words spilling too fast. “Gayle told her you’d teach her the steps. She’s never seen it performed–”
“You volunteered me,” I accused, the bitterness sharp in my voice.
“Well, my wife and I are far too old to participate!” He waved a hand, dismissing my concerns as if this were the most natural solution in the world.
“Couldn’t you have arranged for a proper teacher?”
“You’re here. You know the moves.”
“I’m theking, Clay.”
“And what better way to show unity between Draconia and Radaan than having the king and princess share a dance? Tradition, culture, diplomacy—it’s perfect!” His voice cracked slightly as he threw his argument down like a gauntlet. His raised eyebrows dared me to object.
“People think you are mad,” I said. The kahve scalded as I downed the rest, the burn forcing my thoughts into sharper focus. “But I see through you.”
His hand gestured for me to continue, his expression unreadable.
“I know exactly what you’re doing.”
I had let it slip. Some point either at the palace, or here, he had seen me be too familiar with Nienna. When two people like Gayle and Clay were in love, they could see it everywhere. Matchmakers and the worst of them.
True matchmakers. Not the logical kind that married for convenience or alliance. No, they had the burning, passionate love that was in the storybooks—and so they deemed everyone worthy of such affection.
No matter if they couldn’t have it.
