Page 183 of Anathema

Gods blood, the dress that Maevyth wore stirred something dark inside of him. The way she so innocently swept through a room, not even realizing the yearning that trailed in her wake. The eyes that watched her every move because looking away would’ve been a godsdamn tragedy.

She was chaos wrapped in fine silk. The embodiment of trouble that’d nearly brought him to his fucking knees when he’d first laid eyes on her across the ballroom. So achingly beautiful, his chest hurt.

He thought back to the night before, when she’d lay writhing and moaning. The memory of her satin flesh clenched tight with her climax cast a shiver down his spine. His body had hardened to stone by the time he’d stumbled his way back to his own room. It’d taken three doses of his poisoned blade to calm him–three angry cuts that still burned beneath his trousers even as he stared back at her then.

And those words she’d whispered earlier … asking him to take her and essentially ravish her, though the Primyrian word didn’t translate quite the same. Clearly, she hadn’t known what she was saying or asking of him, and her accent was a bit rough, which had struck him as odd, given the ease with which she’d spoken the language the night before. But that certainly didn’t stop him from wanting to throw her over his shoulder and find the nearest bed. Sure as seven hells didn’t relieve his already-engorged cock.

The blare of horns broke his musings as the ceremony began with Princess Calisza being escorted up the winding staircase to the balcony, where the coupling room awaited her. Goaded by obnoxious cheering from the Solassions, Captain Avith followed, his armor peeled away by his fellow soldiers as he climbed the stairs after her.

“Make her bleed!” one of the men called out.

The comment curled Zevander’s lip. Cocky bastards. He’d have loved to silence every one of them with a quick cut to the throat.

Zevander looked away, his gaze landing on Maevyth, who stared down at her hands. When he scanned over the crowd again, he found the mage she’d talked to earlier in the evening, Anatolis, making his way toward the exit.

While the audience watched the princess and captain entering the chamber with rapt fascination, Zevander weaved his way through the crowd, toward Maevyth. The subtle brush of his hand against hers was the cue to follow him. As if trying not to look suspicious, she didn’t fall immediately into step, but, instead, waited until he was through the crowd.

Smart girl.

Some of the crowd had begun to disperse. Others who longed for proof often chose to remain until the end.

Rykaia headed toward the wine fountain with Torryn trailing after her.

The guards at the door stepped aside, as Zevander slipped out into the courtyard, tracking after Anatolis. The mage rounded the corner, and Zevander silently ordered Maevyth into a shadowy recess. He tossed off the stag mask, replacing it with his usual leather mask, and yanked the hood of his cloak up over his head, before heading after the mage.

With his back to Zevander, Anatolis stood hunched over, and the sound of a snort alerted the Letalisz to what he was doing. Some of the highbloods mixed vivicantem with other stimulants and ground them into a fine powder snuff, which was said to enhance arousal.

On Zevander’s approach, he swung back around and flinched, wiping his nose.

“Godsblood, you frightened the balls off me with that mask.”

“Anatolis, is it?” Zevander didn’t know all the mages by name–only those who met with the king. He’d only recognized him as the bastard who’d ogled Maevyth.

“Yes, and you are?”

“Curious, is all. Why are you not wearing a mask?”

“I … simply have an aversion to them.”

Zevander nodded and, in the next breath, propped a blade at his throat. “I have an aversion, as well. To liars.”

Chin tipped high, the mage stared up at him, his bottom lip quivering. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

“Aside from the princess, you’re the only one who’s chosen not to cover his face.”

A knowing smile slid across the mage’s lips. “They watched you follow me out.”

“I’m certain of it.” Keeping his eyes on Anatolis, he turned his head to the side. “Maevyth.” The mere fact that Zevander had said her name aloud in front of him assured the mage would not be breathing by the end of their meeting.

She peeked around the corner, and as Anatolis attempted to turn his head, Zevander pressed the blade harder.

“Keep your fucking eyes off her.”

Once she stood at his side, he summoned a black fog around them.

Zevander remained silent, staring back at the mage, a knowing smile on his own face as he imagined how he’d ultimately kill him. By plucking out those wandering eyes, to start.

Moments later, two mages peered around the corner, wearing confused expressions on their unmasked faces. They walked aimlessly for a moment, no doubt wondering where the mage had gone. One of them treaded impossibly close, and as Anatolis drew in a breath as if to call out to them, Zevander slid the blade’s edge across his throat just enough to leave a burn there.

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