Page 89 of Embers of Ruin

Home.

I look away, if only for a moment, suddenly aware of the warmth staining my cheeks. When my gaze finds his again, he’s still watching me. Lingering. Then I feel him. Not his touch, but his presence brushing against the edge of my mind. How intrusive of you. It isn’t invasive. It’s gentle. A quiet caress against the barrier I’d only just learned to build. I don't flinch.

I know he isn't reaching into my mind to take something. He’s reaching for me.

MINE. The word echoes through my thoughts, rich and unmistakably his.

Across the hall, his shadows writhe at his feet, restrained but restless, as though straining against an invisible leash.

Mazelle leans closer, whispering in my ear. “Breathe.”

I exhale, glancing over to her. “I am breathing.”

“You stopped.”

“I was assessing possible exits.”

One brow arches, and amusement flickers in her eyes. “You were staring at the king.”

“You were thrown into a tree the other day. Don’t get bold today.”

She grins, and I hate that I have to bite back a laugh.

Mazelle leads me forward before I can delay any longer. The hall notices us gradually at first, then all at once. Heads turn and eyes catch on my hair, then the gown, then the path Mazelle moves toward the king’s table. The attention crawls over my skin, familiar and foreign all at once. I have been stared at my whole life, but never like this. In Elvora, the stares were suspicious. Cruel. Hungry for proof of what they already believed about me. Here, the stares are curious. Some are wary. Some are fascinated.

A beautiful woman in burgundy silk whispers behind her fan as I pass. A silver-haired girl. Her words are soft, but not soft enough. My spine stiffens.

Thorin’s gaze moves to her and the fan lowers immediately.

Interesting. Terrifying, but interesting. Thorin is the most possessive, protective man I’ve ever met.

When we reach the dais, I expect Mazelle to direct me to some distant seat where I can observe without being observed too closely. Perhaps near the scholars. Perhaps beside a potted plant, if the palace has any that are not dead or symbolic.

Instead, she stops beside the chair directly to Thorin’s right.

Absolutely not.

I look at the chair, my eyes widening as they dart to Mazelle before settling on Thorin.

“No. I can’t sit here.”

A ripple of silence spreads across the nearest tables and Mazelle inhales slowly through her nose.

Thorin looks almost amused, which is deeply inappropriate considering my distress.

“No?” he asks softly. His voice settles over me with maddening ease, and I make the mistake of meeting his gaze. Silver swirls appear, and I find it odd that they only appear when he is extremely angry… or⁠—

A warm shiver traces its way down my spine.

“No,” I repeat, keeping my voice low enough that the entire kingdom does not hear me refuse its king, though judging by the sudden quiet, half the kingdom is trying. “I’m not sitting there, Your Majesty.”

The people here don’t know our dynamic, so I refuse to use his name in front of them. His eyes flash at the title, though it is, in fact, his.

“It is a chair, muya quenati.”

Oh.

We’re weaponizing titles now. He’s been alternating between two of them for me, and I still don’t know what either one means.