Page 32 of A Kingdom of Destruction

“Pick them for what?”

He didn’t care to answer, his blue eyes just studied her.

A marriage? No, that didn’t make any sense. Sooner or later she’d die. She was sure of it.

Her mind stretched and searched for an alternate meaning to what the Fae King proposed. She came up empty.

“You are afraid of me. It is understandable and justified. Yet my sons have been decent to you, haven’t they? One of them certainly has.” Her mouth twitched, and the King caught the gesture, his smile sharpening. “They are both handsome and eligible young men. Should one not be to your liking, then the other surely will. Although in the case of arrangements such as these, it isn’t necessary for partners to like each other. Only to perform their duties to their kingdoms. You understand my meaning, I’m sure.”

Not just a prick but a bastard, the skill honed by all his years of life. He’d ruled for three hundred years.

Now he wanted to shackle his son, one or the other, toher? Why? Aven shivered.

King Donal laughed because he knew he’d gotten to her. “I see it’s going to take you some time to come to terms with this. Unfortunately for you, Princess, you do not have the luxury of it. We need to cement the relationship between our kingdoms before your father does something silly and suicidal, such as coming to rescue you. There is no way he would be able to separate a young bride from her betrothed. Singular? Plural?” He chuckled again to himself, and the sound grated over her skin. “We shall see.”

“What if they find fault with the arrangement?” She scowled at the king and allowed him to see the smallest glimpse of the commander she’d been on the battlefield. There and gone when she blinked. “Surely the high and mighty princes won’t want to marry a human woman. Arranged or not.”

The Fae King was through with her, however. Throat bobbing, he snapped his fingers, and the shield of silence around them disappeared. The skin on his face had grown tight.

“The choice will be made for you if you do not seize the opportunity presented,” he snapped. Then he stepped away from the throne and disappeared into the dancing crowd, leaving her standing. Angry and utterly confused.

12

The waltz ended, and the string quartet launched immediately into another dance with a slower tempo. Icy fingers wrapped around her elbow and spun Aven in a circle until she landed face-to-face with Roran and his habitually sharp half smile.

Her gut lurched when he slid his hand to her waist, drawing her close to him and forcing her to lift her chin to maintain eye contact. He didn’t bother asking her to dance—only began to move, shifting her body with him until their beats were timed with the music.

This time, she did scent him—an odd combination of autumn wood and embers from a fire—that made her pulse quicken. She drew in a long breath and held it in her lungs. Something about the conversation drew her attention in a way she both liked and loathed.

“I take it you had an absolutely stellar conversation with the old man,” Roran began. “I can tell from the look on your face.”

Aven forced her features into neutrality rather than nastiness, urging her body to go loose when she wanted to bolt. Roran didn’t look away from her, yet he moved seamlessly withthe crowd, his every movement tuned precisely to the beat of the dance. His grip was loose on her, yet possessive.

There wasn’t enough space for her to breathe, and yet some of the chill from his touch seeped through her and cooled her overheated body. Aven held his gaze, refusing to look away. Something in the silence between them must have irked him, and Roran’s hand tightened on her.

“Why are you here?”

“Here at the ball?” he said slowly, drawing out the vowel sounds. “I enjoy the press of so many bodies together in one space, until everyone is molten and overworked and panting.” His smile widened. “Surely you’ve experienced the thrill of such things at a ball?”

“You know what I mean. I’m not talking about the ball itself.” She shook her head. “Ihateballs.”

Roran kept up with the timing of the dance, and her feet fell into an unfamiliar rhythm under his guidance. She’d never danced to this particular tune before—the lilting melody of strings and accompanying flute haunting and soulful. Yet something about the way Roran moved brought her comfort, allowing her to follow his steps without fear of making a mistake.

“As do I. So, you’re speaking about the dance, then. Why I’ve got you in my arms rather than some simpering noblewoman who’d like nothing more than to put a ring around my finger. Basically the same as a collar around my neck.” His hand gripped her waist harder for a fraction of a second before he released her, his fingers gliding down in a sensual caress to the dip of her rear and lingering.

“You’re only dancing with me because your father made it so.” She knew the truth and yet didn’t expect his lips to pucker when she spoke it aloud.

Didn’t expect the slight narrowing of his eyes when he rested them against hers.

“Do you always choose to bite the hand that feeds you, Princess? If you think about it, circumstances might be a bit better for you.”

“Stop asking me to play your little games with you.”

One eyebrow arched imperiously. “My brother is a game player. What you see is what you get with me, I’m afraid. Whether you like it or not. And as I’ve said, stop biting the hand that feeds you. Things will be much better for you.”

She rocked back and forth on her toes, her heart drumming, and said, “Like you, I can only be the person that I am. I bite because I want to. It’s not likely to change anytime soon.”

He tilted his head, his smile turning sly. “Well, I suppose it’s not so bad to be bitten every once in a while. In the right setting.”

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