Page 24 of King of Fire and Flames

So… finally, here he was in front of me. My glorious, golden nemesis only four feet away. The fae who had ruined my life at least twice over. Oh, how I wished he had left me caged at the gilt market, saving me from endless heartache and pain.

But, no. Assholes have to asshole.

If only I still held the sword that mangled Dorn, I could end Arrow right here. Right now. I scanned his body for weapons, and other than the stupid feather breastplate, saw none.

With two large steps, he closed the distance between us and more, nearly knocking me off my feet. A dark-gold eyebrow quirked in either amusement or concern. Perhaps he was afraid of what I might do to him in front of the fire fae.

He was right to worry. Wrong to find it funny. Because, at last, I could touch him, spit on him, then scratch his pretty eyes out. I leaned forward, my fingers forming claws, but then the heat of King Azarn’s glare burned between my shoulder blades. Revenge would have to wait for a more private occasion.

A brittle silence stretched between us, a chasm between each pounding heartbeat to the next as we stared, neither one prepared to look away first.

Arrow made a strained noise. A throat clearance or a grunt of discomfort. I kept my breathing steady. Forced my pulse to flow like treacle through my veins. Slow and calm.

Unbothered queen, I told myself—or almost-queen. That’s what I was. Unruffled. Unaffected. Unmoved by rippling muscles and body heat like an inferno.

“Shall we dance?” he said, his low voice scraping my skin like evening stubble.

A big palm came to rest on my hip, the fingers of his other hand entwining with mine. I cupped his shoulder, each dip and curve of bone and muscle so familiar. So real. His skin was too warm and his pulse rapid beneath it.

I clicked my tongue in annoyance. When would he learn to dress for an occasion and stop swanning around half-naked, like an adolescent who’d suddenly realized he’d been blessed with a physique to make the gods drool?

With a gentle push of his palm into the base of my spine, our bodies slid together, my breath seizing in my lungs, heart fluttering, trapped against the cage of my ribs.

His stormy scent overwhelmed me—a bite of cold air before it rained, cloves, and a hint of the wine he’d had with his dinner. I did my best to forestall them, but unwanted memories rushed over me.

The way the Storm King had questioned me—a new servant—in the kitchen at Coridon, demanding to know about the home I had no memory of. The intensity burning in his gaze that night, possessive and commanding even then.

The guards who assaulted me, and then suffered gruesome deaths by the same hands that now heated my flesh.

The first time his lips touched mine.

The soaring gold columns of my pavilion.

His crescent-moon bedchamber.

All the lies he had told me.

We began to move, and coherent thoughts dissolved—even the murderous ones.

We danced a meandering, unsteady waltz, my body shaking to the rhythm of his ragged breaths.

Dark lashes glittered with gold paint as he stared down at my mouth. Then his gaze lifted, the heat in his silver irises shocking me into missing a step and stumbling, scorching my heart, causing terrible pain. And still, I couldn’t look away.

Let him stare and attempt to fry my insides if he wished. He would never make me cower.

The murmurs of the fire courtiers grazed my skin as we danced past, their whispers describing the gruesome things they hoped Arrow would do to me. But other than stare in silence, the Storm King did nothing.

I almost asked him about Raiden and the fire fae’s transformation, but then vowed to keep my mouth shut. It was best if my enemies thought me clueless to their tricks, no matter how obvious they were.

For a whole turn of the hall, I said nothing, then of its own accord, my mouth opened. “Well, did you do it?”

“Do what?” he asked.

“Betray me. Sell me to Azarn.”

Fake outrage twisted his expression. “Your question suggests there’s a chance you believe I might not have.”

Lost for words at his flippancy, I stared. First at his traitor’s eyes, then his liar’s mouth.

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