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“What’s wrong?” she queried, her pinkened lips pursing into a slight frown. “Your aura’s off today.”
I paused to consider my words, glancing behind her instead. She sat with her back to my bookcase, her bare shoulders illuminated by the light pouring through the arched windows.
The well-appointed study had once belonged to my father—it had been his sanctuary, his refuge. While mother had been busy with her courtly duties, he’d sought solace between pages of a fiber-bound tome, or held intimate dinner parties with like-minded scholars in this very space.
I remembered little of him. The memories had faded with time and my mother’s skewed opinions. But what I held close to my heart was the spicy musk of his scent and his love for lemon tarts. I recalled the smell of citrus on his breath as he kissed me good morning, and I would always associate the tangy scent with his embrace.
A likeness of him hung in the study, about seven feet high and four feet wide. His portrait had been barred from the official Summerstream gallery upon mother’s orders, and so it had found its home among the things he’d loved the most: his books.
Each one had been bound by foraged fibers, specifically handmade by a group of academics who knew the value of the books. Some old tomes had been retrieved from Old Earth, while others were imported from neighboring kingdoms.
Most came leather-bound, heavy with age and marked with use, but father had insisted they be re-bound carefully and gently with sustainable glazed fibers. Like mother, he had been a talented enchanter from a long line of nobility, and wished to access his prized books without trudging up ladders or even leaving his armchair. The fibers allowed him to call the heavy tomes to his side with merely a flick of his fingertips. While leather was inanimate, the fibers were still a part of nature, blessed by the Goddess, and so it was susceptible to our powers.
It had been one of the first things I’d learned as a child: how to retrieve a book from the highest shelf with the call of my powers. He’d been very pleased when I’d mastered the movement without much effort.
Knowledge is power, Olly,he’d said, his angled mustache tweaked up at the tips.And you have all the knowledge you need in this very library. Use it wisely.
My gaze strayed to the towering portrait above Cryssa. Installing it had been a feat accomplished by a carpenter and five of her best apprentices. A space had been hollowed out between the wall of bookshelves and painted over with a color similar to teakwood. The hand-carved gold frame stood out beautifully against the deep browns, and for most of the day, it caught the sunlight as it streamed in through the windows.
Mother hated this room—every memory of Father seemed to turn her tongue sour. I supposed it would be painstakingly difficult to gaze up at the smiling visage of someone who had betrayed your marriage vows.
High Consort
Wellington Mount-Summerstream
The inscription on the gilded plaque looped with a deep scrawl.
“Nervous?” Cryssa speculated, drawing my attention back to her.
She slipped to her feet. Bare, painted toes sank into the lush carpet, her platform heels divested somewhere near the doorway. Even without them, Cryssa hardly needed the extra height.
I took a moment to admire my future mate, ignoring the voice that insisted I was wasting precious time when I could be practicing the Goddess-forsaken speech. But Cryssa, in her finery, deserved to be admired. Praised.Worshiped.
Yet all I had coughed up when she appeared at the study an hour ago was ‘you look nice’.
It was a wonder that I had a betrothed at all, given my acute ineptitude with omegas.
She was dressed for the coronation in a corseted jumpsuit, the deep crimson bringing out the burnished dark tone of her skin. The waistband was embroidered in the finest gold threads, weaving an intricate pattern that somewhat resembled the emblem of our clan. A soft mesh drape was secured part way across her hips, adding a dramatic flair to the ensemble without restricting movement.
Ruby clips gleamed at the corners of her temples, holding back a waterfall of dark tresses that would otherwise fall over her eyes.
Everything about her screamedomega, from the softness of her smile to the sway of her hips. I understood her appeal in, perhaps, an objective way, like someone admiring a beautiful piece of crystal in their collection.
I noticed the looks—hungry, longing stares from other Alphas who thought I wouldn’t notice.
Cryssa’s appeal lay in her aloofness. It wasn’t deliberate, merely a preoccupation with her council duties and complete neglect of anyone deemed unworthy of her time.
I was unbelievably privileged that she had noticed me at all.
She set the report down on the desk without sparing it another glance, her deep brown gaze seeking my own.
“Would you perhaps be in the mood for a little… stress relief?”
Her softly voiced question raised alarm bells in my head. Dry palms turned damp, and I let the papers fall into my lap to spare myself smudges in the ink.
The beginnings of soft omega arousal threaded the air, and I gulped down trepidation as Cryssa sank to her knees in front of me, placing her hands on either side of my thighs.
She made a questioning sound as she glanced up, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.
