Page 75 of Vale of Dreams

I slide my hand under the hem of his shirt and trace the warm skin, the carved abs. Gods, his body is perfect. As he kisses me, my hips rock against him, and I hear another light moan from deep in his chest.

He nips at my lower lip, and I pull away, catching my breath. My lips are still close to his, my heart racing. Darkness has spread through his eyes, devouring the copper. I want to rock my hips against him again, I want to kiss him again, but I’m trying to control myself. This is all for show. That’s all. He’s still gripping my hair, his expression smoldering, half-lidded, lips parted. Ravenous.

And as for me? I don’t want to admit to myself how much I want more. I’m literally here to kill this man.

“Is that enough?” I whisper through heavy breaths. I’m shocked to realize I almost want him to say no.

“You did well,” he whispers. He moves his hand around and cups the side of my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. “But I’m going to need to visit your room at night. There are rumors going around, apparently, that we don’t spend enough time together.”

“You’ll stay in my room?” I whisper. This is a terrible idea. I can’t be around him, that close to him. His seductive power will absolutely disrupt my ability to do this job. “Is it really necessary?”

He arches an eyebrow. “You’re welcome to take the floor.”

“Such a gentleman.”

As I narrow my eyes at him, I remember that everyone is watching us, that my dress is hitched up. That we’re not alone, though the rest of the room has gone silent. The only noise at the moment is the string quartet, and when I gaze around the hall, I find them all staring at us.

For a few heated moments, I’d nearly forgotten everyone in the room.

I shift on his lap, pulling down the hem of my dress, my cheeks going red.

I need to keep my distance from him as best I can. His allure is dangerous, and I will lose myself in his seductive charm instead of doing my job.

I’m here for an assassination. That needs to be at the forefront of my mind.

My heart is still hammering, my chest flushed as I slide off his lap and walk away from him. I smooth out my dress, painfully aware of everyone staring. Arwenna is giving me a death glare, her face white, jaw tight.

As I stand, someone offers me a strawberry tart, and I pluck it off the tray, eager for a distraction. My breath is still shallow, my heart still racing. I force myself to stop thinking about how it felt when we kissed.

I focus on the tart instead.

Strawberries don’t grow in Brocéliande; they have to be imported from France. They’re considered an incredibly expensive delicacy, served only on very formal events. Most of the tart is made of Brocéliande korriberries, harvested from the forests. But there’s a single large strawberry on top.

I have no appetite, but my fake persona would gobble this up—the poor farm girl who lived through a famine.

As I bring the tart to my lips, something silver flutters up. It’s Mordred’s moth. It skitters in the air, circles around my tart once, and flies away.

A warning.

Thank you, Mordred.

I shoot a nervous glance at Talan, but he’s already gone from the alcove. He’s back in his chair, and one of Arwenna’s dark-haired friends is perched on the armrest. She has gorgeous cheekbones, and her arms are covered in dark tattoos. She and Talan look annoyingly perfect together, like two frustratingly gorgeous goth Fey models. She’s practically in his lap, her arm around his shoulders, breasts directly at his eye level.

I glance across the room at Arwenna. She sits next to another friend, a smile fixed on her face, but she’s doing her best not to look my way. Clenching her spoon tightly, she stares at me from the corner of her eye, waiting for me to take a bite.

I can easily act drunk and drop my strawberry tart to the floor, temporarily saving myself. But that won’t end the assassination attempts. She’ll just keep at it. If she managed to poison my tart, it means she has someone working for her in the kitchen staff and a servant to make sure it goes out in front of me. And at some point, Mordred won’t alert me in time.

I need to make sure this never happens again.

My first thought is to go over to her and use my mind control to force her to confess, but I don’t want to expose my powers like that. She’ll accuse me immediately, and my cover will be blown. Claiming that I suspect the tart is poisoned will draw attention as well, and people will want to know who told me. I can’t even tell Talan how I know.

No, I need to figure out a more subtle approach.

The music shifts to a jauntier tune, and a few people start dancing. Guests are mingling between the banquet tables, chatting.

I turn to Talan and the woman who is now running her finger over his lower lip. Bizarrely, I feel a twinge of anger at her. My relationship with Talan is utterly fake, but she doesn’t know that. On the other hand, this twat is giving me the perfect excuse to get out of here.

“Looks like you’re occupied,” I snap at Talan. “I’m going to go for a walk until you come to your senses.”

---