Page 95 of A Thread of Breath and Bone

She scoffs, slapping my shoulder. “Mean. They at least get two minutes.”

We’re seated in the formal dining room with Raea and me at the head of the table, our friends around us, and further down, the thirty-six men who’ve arrived to be a part of her Ceremony tomorrow. More are arriving later tonight and tomorrow morning.

Raea keeps shooting me nervous glances. It would suck to be in her position. Having to fake interest in a large group of noble men who are probably all hoping it’s them. She takes a deep drink of her wine before Duke Lane Cromwell from her kingdom clears his throat.

The conversation dims as he says loud enough for the whole table to hear, “So, Princess, tell me. What happens when you Bond with one of us? I mean, how awkward for Prince Anders, no? He is, after all, hosting your Ceremony at his home.”

Her face flushes as she sits straighter. “Both of our kingdoms understand my duty to my Bond. Once the Ceremony is over, the wedding will take place, and I’ll be married to whomever the Bond has chosen for me.”

His eyes narrow as he sits back, twirling the red wine in his own glass. When I think he’s going to drop it, he says, “And what of you, Prince Anders? Will you back off when she’s finally claimed by another, or will you continue to be a problem?”

Raea mutters a curse as I lean back, throwing an arm over the back of her chair. I let the question sit in the air long enough that everyone’s conversations have settled to hear my reply.

I grin. “Oh I have no doubt I will be the one doing the claiming.” Raea’s elbow connects with my side, only making me grin wider. “So no, I guess I won’t be a problem. Duke Lane, you’d do well to understand that the Princess is not a prize to be won, but a Queen to be worshipped.”

I feel the mating Bond roar in my veins as Lane’s eyes narrow. The possessive snarl is back, clawing at my throat as I realize these thirty-six men see a prize where I see my soul.

I don’t want to claim her—I want them to understand it. To feel it. To know, without a doubt, that whatever this is between us was never theirs to touch.

That they were never players in this game…only witnesses to my devotion, to something that was decided long before they ever walked into this room.

All the ladies at the table melt, a flush rising across their cheeks—Raea included. Duke Lane huffs, offering a false smile as he leans back.

Conversation at the table resumes.

“Why did you do that? Couldn’t you have just, you know, ignored him?” Raea asks under her breath, pushing around food on her plate.

“I was being diplomatic.” I shrug.

“Diplomatic? That was the furthest thing from diplomatic.”

I can’t help but smirk. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?”

She groans, grabbing her glass of wine again. I don’t give a shit what these assholes think. I lean in close, my lips brushing her ear as I say, “They all need to understand that you’re mine, and you’re not chattel, love. You are the Queen that has me on my knees, ready to do your bidding.”

Her body erupts in goosebumps as she gasps softly. “Such promising words, Prince,” she says, turning her head to me. “Feel free to make good on them tonight.”

I can’t help the way my cock twitches in response. Gods, I’d love to throw her onto the table and worship her right here, right now. There is a physical ache now, a hunger that dinner can't satisfy. I don't care about the press, the war camps, or the ghost of my father in the other wing. Tonight, I belong entirely to the harbinger of light, to the princess who will save us all. And I will spend every second reminding her that the only king who matters is the one already on his knees for her.

Chapter 34

Raea

I wipe my hands down my gown, taking a steadying breath. Last night, men from around the system arrived, all hoping to Bond with me. I’m waiting with my mother and Mera in a room off to the side while the men mingle. Every part of my body is twisting or shaking with nerves. I know how this ends, but I still can’t convince my body of it.

After fake Bonding Ceremony practice this morning, I know there are at least a handful of men out there whose lips may very well be on mine tomorrow morning.

The very thought makes me want to throw up.

Ryker and I have had very deep conversations this past week, airing it all.

Last night, I didn’t get to bed until late, having to spend time diplomatically entertaining our guests. The only “worshipping” Ryker managed was helping me into bed, where he held me against his chest as I drifted off to sleep.

He understands what must be done, though he promised he’d knock them out if they even thought about using tongue.

I hate all of this.

“You look beautiful,” my mother says, standing beside me.