Page 116 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

“There,” I murmured, though my voice felt distant to my own ears. “That should do for now.”

Thibault didn’t remove his hand immediately. His eyes moved away from my face, focusing on my hands as if he could still perceive the magic that had flowed there.

“Remarkable control,” he said softly.

The moment my hands left the king, the room lurched. I straightened too quickly, and my vision flickered at the periphery. The rush of power I’d used left me feeling empty and drained.

The silk scarf—loosened by sweat I hadn’t realized had gathered there—slid. I felt the whisper of fabric against my neck before cool air kissed the delicate points of my ears.

For one suspended instant, it was as if time had stopped. Then everything came back too loud. Berian’s breathing remained steady, but it became a drumbeat. The hearthfire crackled, but its noise was an offensive roar.

Thibault’s unhurried gaze lifted to settle on my exposed ear. There was no widening of the eyes. No gasp. No backward step. Only the minute dilation of his pupils and a terrible stillness.

He blinked once. Then his expression smoothed back into polite attentiveness so seamlessly that I might’ve imagined the interruption.

“Are you unwell, Lady Lunette?” he asked, voice appropriately concerned. “Excessive use of magic can cause dizziness.”

My pulse thundered in my ears. Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to cover myself, to deny, to explain. But an explanation was an admission. It would only make this worse.

“I am…fatigued,” I managed. My fingers fumbled for the fallen silk, but the motion felt clumsy. I gathered it and wound it back around my head with shaking hands, though it was already too late.

Thibault stepped back, granting me space with impeccable courtesy. “Of course,” he said. “You must take care of yourself…for the good of Larethia.”

There it was again—that infinitesimal pause. As if a theory had just found its missing proof, the space between Thibault and me suddenly went taut. He looked ready to lunge forward and seize me. The Assembly's shadow stretched long across the floor, though the sun had barely shifted beyond the window.

With a sigh that sounded like a slumbering giant finally stirring, Berian shifted in the furs. But I couldn’t remain another second.

“I will return…later,” I said, forcing the words through a throat trying to close.

The floor lurched with every step as I crossed the chamber. The guards immediately opened the door, their gazes respectfully lowered, yet the weight of Thibault's predatory focus still pressed on me from behind.

Just before I passed beyond the threshold, the precise, steady current of Thibault’s magic bushed against me again. Testing me as I walked away.

The corridor air struck my lungs like cold water. I gathered my skirts and walked—then quicker—then quicker still, until dignity gave way to something perilously close to flight. Behind me, the door to the king’s chamber shut with a quiet, final click.

Thibault hadn’t asked questions because he already had the answers he needed. I knew, deep in the pit of my stomach, that a predator far more dangerous than a contemptuous, ineffective king had just taken notice of me.

Chapter 33

Owain

My rear foot shot out from under me on the frost-rimed hay covering the training ring. I had just enough time to look undignified before I caught myself on one knee, sand embedding itself into my palm.

I’d shown up to spar and train with the men on time. Except, as the commander, punctuality meant arriving before the scheduled time, not with the men, like I had. Camrick hadn’t said a word. He’d only looked up from tightening a leather strap, taken in my disheveled hair, and let his eyes do the talking.

Now, he was absolutely dominating me in our sparring session because my mind wasn’t in the fight. It was back in my room—the same place it had been all morning. Still under the sheets, holding a scrap of cloth because I’d taken myself in hand like a horny adolescent several times.

It had started innocently enough. The curve of her jaw. The dark ring around her lilac eyes. Her mouth when she was trying not to smile but losing the battle. But the second time had only made my thoughts considerably less innocent. Those same soft lips had traced a path from my mouth, making their way down my body to wrap around my cock. The third time hadn’t been about desire at all. I’d imagined her staying. Waking in my rooms. Trusting me again. Wanting me without hesitation, without the careful watchfulness she’d been wearing around the castle like armor.

It was that image of domestic comfort, more than the sex-charged others, that had left me staring at the ceiling, composing a letter in my mind, long after I should’ve gone to the training yard. I’d thrown the napkin into the fire and gotten dressed before I could worry whether sending it to her had been foolish.

Our tête-à-tête this morning, even charged by her anger, had only increased my attraction to her. It had taken every ounce of my willpower to make my feet head back into my room instead of leaping across the gap between our balconies to try to convince her how sorry I was.

Lunette owned all my thoughts in the cool air of the practice arena. When Camrick lunged, sword angled for a powerful pommel strike aimed directly at my temple, I only managed to lift my wooden practice sword to parry the blow at the last second.

He dropped into a crouch faster than I would’ve thought possible.

Whack. His low sweep—the perfect riposte—landed squarely on the side of my calf.