Page 115 of Winter Gods & Serpents

He was close enough I could tell how thick his lashes were, the small gash from a scratch just under his thick hairline, the day-old stubble beginning to show in his sharp jaw, the very odd shape of his upper lip and the little mole on his right cheek. I could paint him, though how much of his beauty could I replicate in a stick figure?

I cleared my throat, back to my point. “I tolerate you because once you truly have me figure it out, I will get what I want from you.”

All eager and challenge he rose a brow. “Which is?”

“To make you scared of me. True me is far worse than what my lies are.”

He seemed surprised at my words. “It bothers you, the fact that you don’t scare me?”

I nodded. “The hunt is no fun with a doe, but with a scared doe, exhilarating.”

He scoffed. “You’re a psychopath.”

“A beautiful one,” I said, flicking my hair back. “My prey die happy and with a great view.”

He cocked his head back staring me down through darkened rings of silver, mouth parted open just slightly as his tongue pressed against his cheek. He examined me long and slow, from the tip of my hair down to my mouth, shamelessly, before turning to the room.

Handsome idiot. Sigh. The only idiot was I, and my ridiculous body starved for attention reacting to him.

“Their common tongue accent is different,” he noted, looking about.

“Brisk is on border with Koy, they share tradition as well. Many speak Kemeri too. Brisk was Hanaian, my grandfather, may his soul be dragged through the burning hells,” I said in holy greeting, and he smiled again, “claimed these lands Isjordian after the Terian war ended. Not wanting to ignite more death and destruction, Hanai gave away first, terrified after what Verglasers did to their lands. Brisk was a peace offering.. My grandfather intended to use the lands for produce, they were blessed by Plantae after all, but the moment they were claimed Isjordian soil they were covered in snow.”

Terian wars, the three long years had been my grandfather’s attempt on what my father did to Olympia, well, sort of. He’d envied Hanai and its productive lands, but they were not an easy kingdom to put down, at least not then. My father’s wits unfortunately were not passed from him, papa dearest had a grip for war, tactics and steel but knew nothing of the spiritual and was very underestimating of it, at least my father was wary of that. Wary, not fearful, still not enough.

“Mandeval law, lands you claim your own will be blessed like such,” he recited deep in perusal, before lifting his gaze to me. “You grandfather sounded a delightful man.”

I snorted at the attempt of sarcasm that sounded absolutely flat coming from him. “The only blessing I’ve had in my life as an Isjordian princess was not having met him. If he’d lived a few more years he’d taken my father’s idea and bred the whole of Olympia with hybrids.”

“I though your father was after the Elding bloodline, your mother’s bloodline?”

“Aye, but he never underestimated Olympian Aura, found them all equally strong to the Strikers; my father did though, he wanted only what sparkled. The only sparkly thing the greedy fucker got was my personality,” I said, tracing a hand over me and he smiled a third time.

I swallowed the thick frustration down and threw my attention elsewhere, at a tiny scratch on the wall beside me. Interesting scratch. Funny scratch. I ran a finger over it. Oak, maple, or ash wood?

“Your accent strikes strange too. Mal told me you lived in old Olympia. Aren’t there travellers and all sort of foreigners there? Odd you didn’t lose your accent.”

Demanding and very observing, isn’t he?

Dropping the attention from the show stopping scratch on the wooden wall I deemed oak, I faced him again. “I’m a princess. I can mimic all five accents, speak Kemeri, Borsich, Calgnan, Tahuma, old Ysolt, and make you believe I am all of that too.”

“No Darsan?”

I shook my head, now filled with remembrance. “I used to cry when my tutors would make me learn it, soon they gave up all together. I believe I knew my relationship with it before it even started. But even so, it’s an utterly boring, weirdly pronounced blabber. You sort enunciate your words too much.”

“It is called language of night. People rely on more senses than just hearing to better understand you. Part of understanding speech is reading lips.” His eyes darted to mine and I shifted in my seat. “Darsan is meant to be spoken in the dark, that is why we enunciate words, to help people understand them better without the help of the visual.”

“So you enunciate your moans too or just settle for doing the deed in sunlight.” Genuinely curious, sort of bored and wanting to entice him for a pleasuring reaction.

“You will find out.” I blinked slow not understanding his point and he raised a dark brow at me. “You are marrying one, remember?”

“Oh,” I nodded in realization. “Yes, yes. I’ll let you know on my findings. Step one: bed the king who killed my family. Step two: tell Kilian about my experience. Step three: murder the king.”

He smiled a fourth time, widely this time and nodded. “I’ve always been curious, so thank you.”

Joking bastard. My glaring got interrupted by a group of men who made their way onto the table next to ours, chatting, cursing, and waving their crude jokes and offensive names at the locals in the air. Hunters, bloody thick-skulled hunters from the sounds of them. Weren’t Isjordians just joyous?

“Oy, dark headed girl. Your face must turn a few heads, turned mine. Shame for that scar,” he pointed, gesturing his hips in circles.