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“We didn’t wait for witnesses or documentation to approach Winter.”
“That was because we had to act quickly. We needed Jeryn to ally with us for the revels. We had to take that chance. A leap of faith, remember?” I summarized from our talk on the training lawn. “With Basil and Fatima, we can pace ourselves. By tonight, we may very well capture Rhys’s cult at work.”
“And if we don’t?” Poet contested. “Suppose my ex-sovereigns find out on their own that we’ve been keeping intel from them, before we have a chance to inform them ourselves. Winter might even tell Spring, if we delay for too long. One Season as our enemy is enough, but having two is pushing for catastrophe on a long-term scale, if we hope to make headway in our campaign.
“Either that, or we rely on your intelligence and my tongue, and we call it a day. Some would consider those talents enough to convince Spring. By the way, have I mentioned I used to serve them and know a few tricks about how their minds work?”
Blood rushed to my head. “Stop being a smartass.”
Poet’s brow quirked. “Because that’s bad? In case you’ve forgotten, a jester’s lethal wit and a princess’s perception are two things we excel at, which accounts for my confidence in us.”
“I wholeheartedly agree with you, but—”
“But nothing,” he interjected, sunset slicing across his face. “Rhys can deny, grovel, and scapegoat us as much as he wants. At this rate, the shithead is making up our so-called crimes as he goes along. We can handle that, but waiting to inform Basil and Fatima until after we have proof is a greater hazard. Our verbal savvy will have to supplement for evidence, and it wouldn’t be the first time.”
I flung my arm to the side. “We ran into this exact obstacle when deciding whether to prosecute the Masters, whom we’ve yet to find evidence against.”
“We’re not dealing with them anymore. We’re dealing with the Royals of The Dark Seasons, and whilst that sounds rather grandiose, we have intimate experience there. We persuaded Winter—”
“We bribed him.”
“Minor details, sweeting. You act like I’m the only one in this relationship who’s done a fair share of manipulating. What makes you think we can’t persuade Basil and Fatima of what is, inextricably, the truth?”
“Because recent history hasn’t warmed them to us,” I disputed. “Spring has a bias. We duped and betrayed them. How has this escaped your memory? You’re supposed to be the sly one.”
“You dare challenge my trickster prowess?”
“This is not funny,” I reprimanded, though Poet’s face looked nothing close to mirthful.
My breasts mashed against his chest, the heat of his annoyance matching my own. At some point, we’d stomped nearer to one another without realizing it.
Poet’s sensuous mouth curled, his livid voice carving through the inch of space separating us. “Careful, Sweet Thorn. Questioning a jester’s methods, not to mention his sense of humor, is a gamble in and of itself. Walk that fine line, and you might trip.”
I swallowed furiously. “Take heed, Sir. A princess does not bend in the face of such threats.”
“Oh, believe this.” He pushed into me, his torso beating against my own. “By now, I think I know what gets you to bend.”
The temperature spiked between my thighs, and my core flexed with tension even while a scream lunged up my throat. I clamped my mouth shut to keep from lashing out, all the while my fingers shook against his, because despite our words reaching their boiling point, neither of us had released the other’s hand.
I thought back to the last time we quarreled like this, the day after Rhys had turned up unannounced in Autumn to blackmail us. He’d created that rift, the jester’s and my own strategies clashing.
The strain and frustration. The antagonist lengths to which we’d gone. The molten effects it had.
That night in the throne room. On my chair, with Poet tied down while I rode his cock.
Exasperated and overheated, I schooled myself to focus. “Are we going to do this again?”
“You’re surprised?” Poet ground out, his voice thick and heady. “We do plenty of things again and again andagain.”
I scowled, and he glared. Yet my nipples pitted against his coat, and I felt the muscles of his body tighten in response.
A masculine cough interrupted from the sideline. Neither Poet nor I glanced toward the source, because we recognized its owner.
Aire must have quit the building to retrieve us. The First Knight’s bulky outline materialized in my peripheral vision, and his tone was rueful but urgent. “Your Highness. Sir Jester. I’ve come to—”
“Tell everyone to fuck off for another three minutes,” Poet instructed while we glowered at one another.
“Sir?” came the soldier’s baffled reply.
