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His deft fingers easily undid it, the bow strings unraveling as the undergarment came undone, baring me. I could feel him through his pants, the only barrier remaining between us. My hips rolled and bucked, frenzied with the need to feel more of him, to get closer. I was losing control, losing my mind, farther than Lethea with the desperation to feel more of him, to touch him. My hands slid back into the waistband of his pants, lower until I grabbed at his ass.
We kept kissing and kissing, unable to stop, unable to catch our breath. Like if we pulled apart from each other we’d drown.
His fingers dug into my hip like he was grasping for control before they slid towards my core. His forehead pressed to mine. His eyes opened, and he stopped kissing me just for a breath, a question in his eyes.
There was a loud knock on the front door.
Rhyan froze. “Fuck.”
I clamped a hand over my mouth, my eyes squeezing shut in horror.
The knock came again. Sharper. Louder. The fog that had descended, pulling us into this dreamy, hazy world where nothing mattered—nothing but kissing and touching and licking and feeling—lifted in an instant. My body quickly turned cold as I felt the world of responsibility and politics and promises and oaths and duties come crashing down on me.
“Probably Aemon,” Rhyan said, already sliding off of me and out of the bed. He pulled his pants back up over his hips as I pushed my shift down to cover myself. “Don’t move,” he ordered, not looking back at me.
He closed the door behind him.
I scrambled from between the sheets, my legs tangling in his blankets. I practically fell off the bed, taking half the covers and a pillow with me. I searched for my bag on the floor, desperately opening it to find my clothes. I shimmied on pants, tugged my shift over my head, pulled a tunic down over me, and twisted around trying to tighten the laces. I ran my fingers through my hair, spitting into my hands to attempt to smooth it down as best I could.
In the mirror over Rhyan’s dresser, I stared at my reflection, assessing what Aemon would see when he looked at me. Would he see the desire thrumming silently through my body? Would he notice how swollen my lips were, or the deep flush across my skin?
How often does Aemon stare at your lips? Probably never!
Panicking, I scrambled for my leather arm cuffs and belt.
I had to be logical about this. Aemon had no reason to suspect anything. He was the one who’d ordered me to stay here, after all. I looked like I’d just woken up, I decided. I looked like my apartment had been broken into by the Emartis, and I’d had to shelter here because they’d left a deadly message in my bed. If I looked odd, that would be the explanation for it—not kissing Rhyan, not sleeping in his arms, not knowing what it felt like to have his arousal pressed against mine first thing in the morning, not having been slicker with my own need than I ever had been in my life.
Aemon’s commanding voice echoed through the apartment as I opened the door and stepped out, my mask in place. I could do this. I could play my role. I could be Lady Lyriana Batavia, Heir to the Arkasva, High Lord of Bamaria, demanding a report from her country’s warlord.
Too late, I realized I was Lady Lyriana Batavia, the girl without underwear beneath her pants. Fuck. Rhyan had only untied one side, but they must have slipped down my other leg when I was tangled in the sheets and trying to get up. The undergarment was basically two pieces of triangular cloth with strings on the side. I tried not to flush with the memory of his untying the bow and not to think about having to search his bed for my missing underclothes later.
It wouldn’t have been such a big deal if I wasn’t soaking wet with desire, so much so I was worried it would seep through my pants.
“Aemon,” I said curtly, the affect of an heir settling over me.
He bowed. “Your grace.”
“What’s going on with my apartment?” I demanded.
“Didn’t sleep well, your grace?” he asked.
I exhaled sharply. “I prefer sleeping in my bed in my apartment that has not been broken into. Especially when I have a security team constantly on my trail.” I tried to speak neutrally, to make up for overcorrecting, but even I was internally wincing at how spoiled I sounded. Better than sounding guilty.
“I’ll make coffee,” Rhyan said loudly, heading into the kitchen as Aemon stood stoically across from me in Rhyan’s living room. Dressed in his full arkturion regalia, he looked out of place but commanding as ever as he gestured for me to take a seat on the couch.
“Her grace looks like she could use a cup,” Aemon said darkly.
I was toeing the line. Even as Lady Lyriana Batavia, I was still expected to show respect to Bamaria’s warlord.
“Arkturion, would you like some?” Rhyan asked. Impressively, he looked completely put together. His facial expression was devoid of emotion. He wore the sort of bland, alert look I’d seen thousands of times on Markan or anyone else on my escort team. His hair, which I’d just run my fingers through, was pushed back, wavy, but somehow neat-looking. If I hadn’t been the one lying beneath him, kissing him, touching him, I would have never guessed he’d done anything but woken up and maybe knocked out a hundred push-ups before starting breakfast.
Aemon shook his head at Rhyan. “Thanks, Hart, but I can’t stay.” He turned his attention back to me and perched on the armchair of the couch. “I assume you didn’t want your sheets or blankets anymore?” he frowned.
I shuddered. “I’d prefer the entire bed to be burned.”
“Yes,” he said wryly. “I’m aware of your penchant for lighting old items on fire.”
I stiffened. Aemon hadn’t been there when I’d tossed everything from my room after Jules had died, but of course, he’d know. He knew everything.
