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But while she studies them, I study her.
The way her eyes narrow slightly when a bride says something she doesn’t quite agree with, or the way her lips tilt up into a smile when the others laugh. Her folded hands rest in her lap, her dress cascading around her like the waterfall at the selkies’ pool we visited last week. She looks positively radiant in blue, but I’d bet all the gold in my vault that she’d look even better wearing nothing but my come.
Thank the Sovereign Sisters the tonic is still in my system, muting the fire that would be blazing across my neck at these sinful thoughts and the memory of what transpired between us an hour ago—Gwyn on her knees, my cock crammed down her throat. Gagging on me. Swallowing my come without wasting a drop.
I look for signs of her ruin on her face, but she cleaned up too well.
Not a single tear or bead of sweat or pink-flushed cheek.
Just smooth, pale skin, bright silver eyes, and a mouth that’s smirking at me.
One of the brides giggles nervously. “Your Majesty?”
“I don’t think he heard your question, Daphne,” Gwyn says teasingly. “It seems the king is distracted by our collective beauty.”
Oh, I’m distracted by her beauty, all right.
I’m also distracted by her mouth, her scent, her… everything.
It’s going to be a problem.
She’s going to be a problem.
Maybe I already want her to be.
“You seem to know me so well already, Gwyn,” I drawl.
A burgundy-haired female—a genie, judging by the distinctive thick, golden bracelets adorning her wrists and the writhing ink staining her neck in whirls and swirls—scowls.
Gwyn’s smile is sheepish as she shrugs. She’s playing this part perfectly.
“I promise I’ll pay better attention this time, Daphne.” I flash the nymph a grin. “Ask again.”
“I-It’s fine,” she stammers, wetting her lips. “I was just wondering if you wanted to do an activity to get to know us better.”
“What kind of activity?”
“It’s called Silt and Soul. We play it in Velhara every hibernal. Essentially, villagers gather in the town square at dusk and sit in a circle—a lot like this—and we ask one another questions and reveal muddy truths and glimpses of our souls.”
Lyrielle claps her hands. “I love the sound of that!”
Several brides murmur their agreement.
Though it’s the look of intrigue that unfurls across Gwyn’s face that has me saying, “It sounds like the perfect activity for these circumstances. Why don’t you start, Daphne?”
She pushes a lock of dark brown hair from her equally dark eyes, both as rich as freshly turned earth, tilting her head as if weighing her thoughts.
Then, she begins.
The wine flows constantly throughout the evening, and with every bottle, the brides become more and more relaxed, happy to talk about themselves and their hopes and dreams for the future.
Even if Daphne won’t be my bride, I think she’s brilliant for giving me this avenue to narrow down why these females were chosen by their respective supremes.
Though some answers seem incredibly rehearsed.
Zeryn, the genie from earlier, and a few others are definitely guilty of saying some variation of the same reasoning behind why they’ve come—“I was chosen to be your bride because your people deserve a loving queen.”
When it’s Gwyn’s turn to answer the question, I hold my breath.
