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The raven shadows slithered, reluctantly retreating until they settled against his skin like ink. He noted how they were the same hue as the hair, bound as it was in a tight bun—delicate and intricate braids wrapped around a wolven pin at the base of her nape.

The strong grip around his unsheathed scythe—obsidian metal, an identical colour to his shadows—grounded him, but now that solid, reassuring weight felt heavy, reminding him of what he had come to do.

‘Why are you agreeing to this marriage?’ His tone was filled with anger, but his expression, reflected in the mirror behind her, showed desperation. They had taken his title.

The war had resulted in great personal loss for Rymedur. He had lost many of his friends, brothers in arms. He was no longer Commander Luca. His new title—one meant to humiliate and degrade both him and his kingdom—Son of Selcirith, nephew to the newly-appointed King Killian, soon to be son-in-law of King Aerileas, felt like a strange chain wrapping around his neck.

He did not care for his kingdom, had not cared about the previous, cruel king who’d ruled over his home. He cared only for the mother he was to leave behind.

An acrid taste coated his tongue. ‘You clearly dislike this as much as I do.’ He gestured around them, weapon still in hand, slicing through the air.

He was almost certain he heard a shuffle behind him, but the female before him lifted her hand. Who was she commanding to halt? He moved to look over his shoulder, but a warmth of soft skin against his face had him turning his attention back to his would-be wife.

Blinking rapidly, Rymedur tried to rid his mind of the cloudy confusion the touch brought forth. Why had her fingertips been so soft? She was supposed to be an envoy. Aerileas’s soldier. His assassin. Callouses—rough and hard—like his own should litter her palms. Right?

Words felt thick and heavy, reflecting the tension in the air. The large room suddenly felt too small.

‘Stand down, Ryyen,’ she commanded, though her eyes never left his. Neither did the hand searing his cheek. There was a quiet, deliberate shuffle behind him before Rymedur heard the gentle snick of a door closing. Had whoever was there left?

Rymedur found himself at a loss for words as he truly looked at her. His gaze roamed the dainty silver circlet that rested on her brow to the satin dress that clung to her form. Her wedding dress.

The material was mesmerising. Simple, but with the way she held herself, she made it seem fit for a royal. It dragged across the floor as she took a single step closer, further into him, until their chests were flush. The heart-shaped neckline was low, pushing up her breasts to meet a small dusting of diamonds that merged with the necklace enwrapping her neck. Rymedur wanted nothing more than to let his lips trail up that long neck of hers. He wondered what sounds he could elicit.

Due to his hulking form, she had to strain her neck to look up at him, but when their eyes met again, it was like the world fell away.

‘Who was that?’ Rymedur finally spoke. His voice sounded laden with honey—thick and heavy.

‘Ryyen, my spymaster.’ Her tone was no more than a whispered breath as she answered him truthfully. ‘Why did you think I was alone? Is that why you were so bold as to come in here with your weapon drawn?’

‘My shadows didn’t feel them?’ He hadn’t meant it to sound like a question, but he was confused. No one was able to hide from his shadows. Why had they not warned him of this Ryyen? Had they not noticed them?

‘That concerns you, doesn’t it? Not having total control.’ She chuckled lightly. ‘Don’t worry, Commander. Ryyen has that effect on everyone they meet. You are not alone.’

They were still so close. Fog clouded his mind. Was it desire? Want? Or the fact that she was an utter mystery to him? He could not tell, and that excited him. He loved a challenge—a puzzle. And she certainly did not disappoint.

Chapter 12

Rymedur

Almost two decades ago…

Her hand remained on Rymedur’s face as though she were stuck in a trance, fingers slowly roaming his features like she was committing them to memory.

He wasn’t sure why he let her, but it felt good. Right.

The pads of her fingers were coarse against his skin. She smoothed over the rounded tops of his ears, glided over the bridge of his nose, finger following down the recent and raw battle scar that slashed across his eye. Had it not been for his mother’s proclivity for healing, Rymedur would have been blinded.

When her nails dragged across his sharp jaw, moving to trace the bow of his lips, Rymedur had the sudden urge to taste her. He wondered if she would be as sweet as the scent that wrapped so tightly around her. He stood, mesmerised, unable to move an inch. The princess smelled distinctly like a delicate balance of pomegranates and verbena—strong and luscious. It captured him, refusing to let him go.

‘It wouldn’t be so hard to fall in love with you.’ The words had been a whisper to herself, but Rymedur had heard them.

He blamed her private confession for what happened next.

Subconsciously, a sudden urge overpowered him, and his tongue darted out before he could even think.

The sudden crude act broke whatever trance she was in. As soon as his tongue flicked out, meeting the pad of her thumb, she abruptly pulled away. Shock flashed across her face.

Bringing her hand to her chest, she cradled it as though it were wounded, but the rose-coloured blush that rapidly raced up her neck and brightened her cheeks told Rymedur otherwise.