Page 68 of Sun, Moon & Shadow

“Spare me the details, please.” Lucan tossed his half-eaten roll onto his plate.

Nova chuckled to herself. It was endlessly satisfying to get under Lucan’s skin; he preferred to be the one ruffling feathers.

The delicate tinkling of a knife against stemware drew everyone’s attention to the far end of the table where Idrian stood, wineglass in hand.

“I’m a soldier and not accustomed to making flowery speeches,” he began, glancing around at the other guests. “But I hope you’ll all indulge me, as I’d like to make a toast to our Noble Lord.”

All eyes flicked briefly to Nox, a casual but commanding presence.

“Silvergard is no longer what it once was,” Idrian continued. Many of the guests lowered their heads, no doubt recalling the dark times they had lived through. “Change happens slowly, but the Lunar Court has turned a page over the past century. So, let us raise our glasses to Lord Nox—the one responsible for changing . . . everything.”

Cheers and applause burst forth from Nox’s guests, and Idrian lifted his glass. Nox tipped his head and drank from his own cup, but his charcoal eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze lingering on Idrian. Nova imagined her uncle respected the general but would never entirely trust him. While both males were idealists, they had vastly different worldviews.

Lucan snorted beside her, the sound mercifully muffled by the trailing applause.

“Have some manners,” she hissed, nudging his knee with her own.

“Oh, please,” he muttered, twisting his torso to face her, his back to the general. “Surely you can see what a bootlicker he is. He’s here to ask Nox for coin for his troops. He’d say anything to get what he wants.”

“Don’t be so cynical.”

“It’s my job to be cynical,” he said, turning back to monitor Idrian, who had returned to his seat. “It’s how I’ve managed to keep Nox safe all these years.”

Nova rolled her eyes and leaned back in her seat, bringing her glass to her lips again. She watched Idrian closely as he chatted with the guests seated around him, a charming smile stretched above his proud chin. Perhaps she’d missed it thanks to Lucan’s antics, but she couldn’t recall if she’d seen the general drink to his own toast.

Thirty-Two

The air was heavy, thick with steam and the scent of jasmine. Callan slowly waved a hand in front of his face, scattering the mist that hung in the air and clouded his vision. Parting like curtains drawn open before him, the haze faded, revealing Nova reclined in a soaking tub carved from polished black stone.

Her head rested on the lip of the tub, her long raven waves cascading over the edge like a shadowy waterfall. Callan took a step toward her, silencing the voice in his head accusing him of trespassing. His eyes drifted down, lingering on the soft swell of her breasts barely peeking out above the glossy surface of the water. A breathy moan passed her lips, almost too quiet for him to hear. He shot a glance at her face. Eyes closed. Dark lashes fanned out over cheeks flushed pink.

This wasn’t right. He should leave. Callan turned to go when she spoke, murmuring his name. His name. His body responded immediately. Long strides quickly closing the distance between them. His knees hitting the floor of gleaming black stone. Eyes still closed, Nova tilted her face toward him. A lazy smile stretched across her lips. He reached out and slowly traced a finger over her forehead, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Acting without thought, Callan dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the apple of her cheek. Her skin was hot under his lips. Nova moaned, a soft command escaping into the humid air: “Kiss me, Callan.”

He stared at her mouth for a beat, then did exactly as he was told, lowering his head again. When their mouths joined and he felt the light brush of her tongue against his bottom lip, it was impossible to judge what was harder: the beating of his heart, or his cock straining against the fabric of his breeches. Nova gently lifted his hand from where it gripped the edge of the tub and laid it on her breast. She squeezed her hand over his, encouraging him to feel her.

Callan pulled back to drink in his view of her, the peaks of her nipples breaking through the surface of the water. He kneaded her breast, his eyes wandering to the shadowy depths concealing the rest of her body from view. As if reading his thoughts, Nova took his hand again and guided it beneath the water, along the softness of her stomach, and brought it to rest against her inner thigh.

Callan held his breath, his arm submerged past his elbow, hot water drenching his sleeve and lapping at his skin. He kept his gaze trained on her lovely face as he touched her, slick and inviting under his fingertips. Her mouth fell open and she moaned softly, eyebrows pinching together as he stroked her. Callan swallowed hard, his throat suddenly gone dry. Nova languidly lifted her foot out of the water, bracing it on the edge of the tub and opening herself to him.

Callan’s breath was ragged as he slowly eased his middle and ring fingers inside her. Nova gasped, lifting her hips and clamping her hand down over his, sending him deeper.

Callan awoke with a low groan caught in his throat. He was in his bed. Alone. The echo of Nova’s moans sounded in his mind. He rose onto his elbows and peered out the window at the midnight sky scattered with shimmering stars. With an agitated growl, he threw himself down onto the damp pillow.

He ran his palm over his cock, hard and aching with want for her. Taking himself in his hand, he closed his eyes, stroking himself roughly as he imagined what the water had hidden from view. The sweet, yielding heat between Nova’s thighs. It wasn’t long before he found a frustrated release, sweat clinging to his brow as he chased the memory of the female who seemed to have enchanted him.

The next day, Callan wandered along the winding laneways that meandered around the Estate. Two weeks had passed since he returned from the ice fields, but his uneasiness hadn’t diminished. A persistent sense of dread remained tucked away inside his rib cage. Despite his insistence that the Shadowbringer was responsible for the attack in Whitepeak, his uncle refused to act. In fact, Thorn seemed preoccupied with trivial matters, constantly pestering Callan about the damn bargain he’d made.

The folk of the Winter Court seemed to be warming to him. They bowed their heads as they walked past him, fists laid over their hearts. Callan smiled but always averted his eyes, certain they’d see him for what he truly was. A fraud.

Eventually, his aimless walking led him to the docks, with the fish vendors counting coins and stacking their wooden crates. Did Thorn truly wish for him to take his rightful place on the throne? Callan didn’t know the first thing about being a ruler. He’d left Nivali long before his parents could start preparing him for leadership. He could wield a sword and not much else. The Council had reduced him to a weapon long ago. He was beginning to fear they may have been right.

Leaning against a wooden post, Callan stared out over the water. He felt untethered, a ship without a mooring. He wished someone could simply tell him what to do. An icy wind rolled in off the sea as a vessel pulled up alongside the dock, the captain calling out to one of the vendors in the lyrical language of the fisher folk. Callan stood at attention. Perhaps there was someone who could tell him where his path would lead.

Though Liv was his uncle’s consort and resided with him in the Estate, Callan learned she kept a small cottage of her own at the edge of the woods. A female exited as he arrived, pushing past him, her eyes wet with tears. He considered turning back. Did he truly wish to know his future? Nova had seemed deeply troubled by what Liv shared with her.

Gathering his resolve, Callan knocked on the doorframe and stepped over the threshold. The space was cramped but cozy, a hearty fire blazing on the hearth. A daybed took up one side of the room. A workspace with a loom and hundreds of spools of colorful thread occupied the other. Liv sat at the loom, weaving a thin thread of midnight blue through the taut vertical strings, then brushing the thread upward with a wooden comb.