Page 27 of The War Queen's Daughter

“Maybe,” he says. Shifts in place. “I do have questions.”

“Ask,” I say. “If it’s in my power, I’ll answer.”

Altar’s smile lights his eyes. I honestly expected flirting in return. Instead, he begins to pepper me with inquiries, rapid-fire, eager, to my dismay, and for the next many hours, I’m doing as I promised. He wants to know about Heald, about our traditions, our people, our battles. I rise and pace at times, Altar at others, his deep and thoughtful asks making me respond in kind.

This was not what I had planned for our meeting, and if he knows it, he’s not showing it. The excitement that gripshim, honest and genuine, has me answering everything with matching energy that makes me a bit breathless.

He digs deep, about my mother, her strategies, her renowned ferocity. He asks about our most recent battle, the northeastern engagement inside the farmlands of Nethal, our tactics, the cost, and then, his gaze sharpening, he asks about my role in it. How I fought. What I commanded. My choice to let the soldiers flee instead of wiping them out, and why that differs from the tactics of my mother.

I unfold all the details of the battle down to the sword strokes that I relive as he listens with open fascination.

It’s surprisingly easy to be drawn in by his intense curiosity, his genuine interest. I talk about the muddy terrain, the blinding smoke from the blazing forest the locals set afire to slow us down, only to have the wind turn it back on them. The clash of steel, the screams of the dying. I describe the tactical decisions, the flow of battle, the exhaustion, the exhilaration of victory. I answer when I maybe shouldn’t, revealing details that a cautious warrior would keep to herself.

I wasn’t going to trust anyone here.And yet, it’s clear that to succeed at my goal, to win this prize that is the Overprince, nothing short of utter honesty will end the way I need it to. The irony of manipulation through complete truth is one I appreciate immensely.

If he knows what I’m up to, it doesn’t seem to matter to him. One thing is certain to me. While I might be unique in his experience, he, too, is unlike any man I’ve ever met, and I find I like his curiosity very much. It’s a surprising connection, one I never expected.

“And magic?” His question is abrupt, startling, makes me snort.

“No such thing anymore,” I tell him. “With the dragons gone.”

Altar hesitates, smiles. And launches into a new line of questions that distracts me from that unusual moment.

It’s his turn, I insist on it, answering honestly when I challenge him with questions of my own. He listens to each with absolute attention, his brow furrowed in thought before he answers as thoroughly as I had. He speaks of his own studies, of the ancient past, of his grandfather and the founding of the Overkingdom, hinting at things he believes are not widely known. His voice is deep, intelligent, full of a quiet passion I never expected from a pampered Overprince.

Before I realize it’s happened, we’ve talked the night into morning. Hours have given way as we discussed politics, history, the structure of the Overkingdom, the delicate balance of power between the thirteen kingdoms. By the time dawn begins to paint the sky with streaks of bruised purple and rose out the window behind him, I am yawning from a second night without sleep, my body aching with a strange combination of exhaustion and exhilaration. The lantern’s oil has run almost dry, several of them gutted and dark, and the room is filled with a soft, kind light of morning.

Altar finally stretches, a look of surprise on his face. “Forgive me,” he says, then laughs. “Here I am, apologizing again.” His chuckle makes me smile. “But I seem to have kept you up all night. I rarely find someone with whom I can speak so freely, so honestly.” He regards me with a genuine, warm expression that makes my insides flutter. Not because I know now that Amber was right. For my own reasons that surprise me. “You may go if you wish. Before you miss breakfast with the others.”

He’s rolled his sleeves to the elbow, a small spot of ink streaking the pale hair there. I reach out to touch it, wiping at it with my fingertip. It’s an unconscious move, unintended, and all the more powerful for it.

Altar freezes when I touch him, and when I look up, he’s flushed again.

Be myself. Very well. Because I very much want to do so with him.

I rise, circle the table, pushing him back with firm hands. His blue eyes flutter, thick blond lashes catching daylight, his lips parting as I close the distance. There’s a perfect space for me between his parted thighs, and I chuckle at the change in his face when I press into him, one hand on his chest, the other at the front of his trousers.

He’s hard and I’m suddenly very, very wet.

“I’m not hungry for breakfast,” I say. I make no effort to seduce him with my voice. It’s husky all on its own.

“Remalla.” He’s just as raspy when he says my name, though he doesn’t touch me, hands firmly on his thighs as I stroke once, twice, then cup the heat of him in my palm and squeeze gently through the fabric between us.

His moan makes me shudder.

“Altar,” I slide my other hand up, following the curve of his chest, to his neck and his pounding pulse before cupping the back of his head, fingers winding in his hair. “What areyouhungry for?”

He swallows. His lips part.

I don’t wait for an answer because it’s obvious to me.

I kiss him instead. Not soft, not teasing. I claim his mouth, my tongue inside him as I squeeze below again. His breath catches, but still he restrains himself as though he’s unable to respond the way he wants.

And then he’s kissing me back, both hands driving into my hair, jerking me close, devouring me like he’s been starved for something real and doesn’t know how to handle it.

I pull hard on the ties of his trousers, dropping my hand to haul up the hem of my skirt, straddling him in a single motion.

He hesitates. I feel it, a coiling in his spine. He wants me. I cantasteit, already anticipate all of him inside me, the heat of him pressed against my inner thigh, dripping tip so close. But something stops him.

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