Page 42 of Of Song and Scepter
“Straight from the fishery.” He smiles, and the firelight glints off his teeth. “Something wrong with my chef’s cooking?”
The chef glares at me from behind the prince, cleaning his knife on a wet towel.
“No. I just prefer it less…” I eye the fish on the prince’s spit. He lifts it to his mouth and sinks his teeth into the burned flesh. I swallow my disgust. “Cooked.”
He chews around the bite thoughtfully. “Less cooked,” he repeats, swallowing.
The chef threads another spit through the flesh of the uncooked fish, then stokes the fire.
“Hold on there, chef,” the prince says. “The lady saidlesscooked.”
“You want me to just, lightly roast it, my lady?” the chef suggests.
I shake my head. “If that one’s for me, I’d eat it just like that. No fire.”
“I can cook that for you, if you’d like.” The chef frowns.
“Goddess, no. You’ve already ruined that one.” I nod at the prince’s half-eaten fish. The prince smiles around his next bite.
“Criticize my cooking without trying it, I see.” As he speaks, he slaps the raw fish onto the counter in front of me. “Go on, then.”
After removing my glove so as to not stain it, I dig into the juicy flesh. My teeth sink in deep, ripping and tearing through the soft fibers. Sweetness floods my mouth, and my eyes roll back a little. A moan escapes before I can reign it in.
The prince’s green eyes study my every move.
“Never thought I’d see a siren ask for raw meat.” The chef scratches his fingers through his short hair. “Is that a dark-dweller thing?”
I pause my frenzy for a moment. Blood dribbles down my chin, and I lick it away with a swipe of my tongue. For effect, I flex my spines, lifting them from their sheaths. “You sun-drenchers could eat it raw, too, if you tried.”
“Sun-drenchers, eh?” The chef chuckles. “I suppose that’s true.”
I suck the skeleton into my mouth, snapping the bones. The final swallow slips down my throat, and I lean onto the counter, pinching up the morsels I missed.
“What would you say to another field trip?” The prince sets his finished spit on the counter, leaning next to me. His shoulder brushes mine, the ghost of a touch. “I know of an excellent little place in the reef districts. I’m sure we could persuade their kitchen to produce something even fresh enough for you, Wicked. My treat.”
His eyes swim with a look I haven’t seen in years. My throat tightens, and I swallow with difficulty. A fishbone wedged sideways, likely; nothing at all to do with the way the prince islooking at me. Or the way his eyes drop to my lips. He leans closer. His breath skitters across my face, and I lean into the warmth.
My eyelids droop. The prince has an intoxicating pair of lips. I’ve never studied them this closely before. The smooth slope of them, their gentle curve—
Odissa’s voice floats to the front of my mind:help me win the prince’s heart, and you’ll swim free.
I freeze. I shouldn’t be here, not withhim. “I’m sure Her Highness would appreciate another outing with you,” I say, speaking around the bone in my throat. “I’m happy to chaperone. If there’s raw fish.”
The prince straightens from the counter, morphing before my eyes from the relaxed male once again into the stiff royal I’m used to seeing. “Of course, my lady,” he says. “I’ll see what can be arranged.”
Chapter twenty-six
Soren
The handmaid plagues mydreams all night. I watch her, endlessly, as she devours creature after creature alive, until the blood runs thick down her chin. She smiles at me, her fangs long and glinting. Then she saunters toward me, those bright purple eyes sharp. When she reaches me, she sinks her teeth into my neck—and I don’t move. I don’t protest. I stand there, completely calm, and I let her have her feast.
Sitting in my mother’s calling room, I touch my neck, tracing the place Enna’s teeth marked me in my dreams. The soft floral scent of the room sticks in my mouth, drying my tongue. Clio busies herself with displays of fabric and flowers, her long blue fingers pinching and prodding the practice wedding arrangements. A broad table brims with decorations I couldn’t care less about.
The queen stands in the center of the room in what is to be her gown for my wedding ball, while a slew of maids fuss over her with measuring string and pins.
“These are the flowers Lady Myrrh suggests for the arrangements. What do you think, Your Majesty?” Clio asks, lifting a flower for the queen to sample.
The bright pink bloom nearly brushes the queen’s nose. She shifts away from it, frowning. “Too faint a smell. And the color is wrong,” she says. “Don’t you think so, Soren?”
