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“Or steal the air from your very lungs. Carry in a poisonous smoke through your open balcony. Your kind are crafty.” Arran did lower his sword, though.
“At least that could be somewhat construed as a compliment,” I said, my own knife already safely returned to its scabbard. “Add it to your ridiculous list.” As I spoke, I unfastened the belt that held the twin scabbards in place and tossed them onto the velvet-upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. “Now get out.”
Parys scrambled to his feet. I rolled my eyes. Again.
“Not you,” I said, looking past Parys to the Brutal Prince. “Him.”
Arran cocked one dark eyebrow. He was as sweaty and caked with red dust as I, but whereas I was certain I looked like a hag, I found myself wanting to lick his throat just to feel his stubble against my tongue.
That, or stab him.
Instead, I pulled loose the gold pin holding my bodice in place and began unwinding it from around my midsection.
Arran’s eyes flickered. I knew if I looked closely enough, I’d see that black fire that burned just for me.
Just for me.
I wish.
Why did I wish that, precisely?
I forced down that thought, refusing to examine it even a teensy bit.
But despite the argument inside my own head, Arran’s eyes were watching as inch by inch, with each pass of the sheer fabric falling away, I revealed more of my body to him. Cyara appeared at my shoulder, catching the end of the fabric and taking over the task.
“Why is your friend waiting in your bed, Veyka?” he said slowly.
Danger.
Every instinct inside of me—warrior, female, fae—all of them screamed in unison.
“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” Cyara murmured, the last of the bodice falling away to reveal nothing but my thin laced bustier that held my breasts in place while I trained.
She melted away, her footsteps quietly retreating toward the door. Parys went as well, giving Arran a wide berth as he joined Cyara. They closed the door behind them.
“Parys is my friend,” I said, suddenly aware that I stood before Arran in very little clothing, in very close proximity to a bed. My bed.
Whatever emotions were welling in my chest, my body did not care.
Come, it called to Arran’s.Take what is yours.
On some other plane, down low, so deep I could almost feel it, I thought I heard the rumbling growl of an animal in return.
Arran lingered at the side of my bed, his fingers reaching down to toy with the slightly rumpled bedsheets where Parys had been laying. “Are all of your friends so comfortable in your bed?”
I swallowed hard. I should lie. “Only those I invite into it.”
Arran’s blade sang as it slid back into its sheath. His eyes were down, staring at the pillow, the coverlet, the traces of another male.
“You do not deny a physical relationship?” he asked, voice low and casual. He was getting better at this game.
As if we were discussing what would be served for supper. But I was not fooled. This was about to become a battle on par with the duel we’d just had in the training courtyard. The only difference was that this one would be fought with words rather than blades.
I shrugged, trying to match his tone. Knowing it was all fake. “Parys and I understand each other.”
“I see.” His fingers closed around the coverlet and with a sharp yank, he stripped it from the bed. Then the sheets. The pillows. All of it, until only the mattress remained.
Ancestors, at least it wasn’t stained. Parys and I had never… well, we’d satisfied each other. That was the most I could say. But the kind of bed play that left behind traces of gratification after the fact? I’d never had that kind of pleasure.
