Page 21 of King of Pride and Talons

The king scoffed, maintaining his grip around her waist with firm dedication.

“How can you say such a thing? You can't tell me that you didn't feel what I felt last night. You were rather appreciative if I remember correctly."

She took the last remark as a slight but decided not to follow up on it. She could see her bust in her peripheral vision rising and falling harshly.

“I did appreciate it. And I did enjoy it. Quite a bit, actually.” She looked away, not wanting to meet his insistent stare. "But that doesn't mean that everything is going to work out. And it certainly doesn’t mean that I am fit to be a queen.”

Breya chewed on the last word, tasting its acidity. She had previously been excited by the prospect but grew unsettled by Thorne’s general assumption as the ball went on. The dress she wore was charming, and she did feel a little bit like royalty. But aesthetics certainly did not transition into leadership.

“I disagree completely,” Thorne said gruffly.

The song was reaching its crescendo. They had to raise their voices over the screeching trumpets and soaring cellos, not exactly yelling, but damn near close.

“Did you not hear your people when you were introducing me?” Breya implored, scoffing herself. “They were mocking me. Making comments about the witch who is going to steal away their King of Savanna."

Thorne’s hand tightened around hers for a sliver of a moment, enough to make Breya jump. His eyes softened briefly but re-crystallized as they rounded their final lap along the dance floor.

“Tell me who was whispering such insults.”

Breya sighed. Thorne’s forehead creased deeply.

“It was a few people. But that's not my point. My point is that I can't just become your queen after spending one night together… One amazing night, yes. But there has to be more to it. More before I can even start considering such an offer."

Drums thumped and symbols crashed. It was all warped to them, locked within their own bubble of a dispute.

“You are my fated mate. You are meant to be queen as you are mine."

Anger twisted in Breya’s chest like tightened cables.

“I am not yours yet,” she said, biting her words. “You can't keep saying the mate thing when I have no idea what that is. I am not a shifter like you. I don’t follow your rituals. Haven't you ever been in love? What about that?"

The music had nearly reached its peak. The faces around them were jubilant, seemingly ignorant of their spat.

The king’s cheek twitched into a half snarl. As the song evened out, they paused their swaying, his hands gliding down toward her lower back. Breya may have been a village girl, but she had a good idea about what was coming next.

The king dipped her backward, holding her steady with one hand glued to her back, the other curled around her wrist. Spectators awed and marveled at the amorous sight, then began to applaud as the music came to a final, drawn-out finish.

Meanwhile, Breya’s heart had nearly crawled up her throat. Thorne lowered his mouth to her ear, the low timbre of his voice sending shivers of goose bumps over the witch's exposed flesh.

But it wasn't seductive. It was confessional, and in many ways, vulnerable.

“I have never been in love, dear Breya. I hope that doesn't bother you."

Applause thundered through the ballroom as the king guided Breya back to her feet. His hand was still clasped in hers, pressing up against the valley of her bosom. The other skimmed along the bone bodice of her dress.

The witch’s heart continued its relentless thump as she swallowed dryly, looking to close off the argument aptly without injuring him further.

“I’m sorry. But I need more. You have to open up to me. Then I will think about it."

The guests roared with praise and began to spill out onto the dance floor. Something flashed through the king's eyes, and he took a step backward to bow nobly, then gave her hand another tender kiss.

“For you, I will try," he whispered.

He slipped away from her quickly. A tap on the shoulder drew her attention, giving Breya very little time to process the emotional whirlwind.

“Miss Kaydalle?”

The voice was gentle, his color a bright and soothing lavender mist. She turned to find a tall and svelte man, bald as a cue ball, waiting with a Cheshire grin.

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