Page 93 of Of Song and Scepter
We survey the options: kukris and dirks, trailing blades and clips, a hawkbill with a double serrated edge. A needlepoint dagger catches my eye, thin enough to slip through ribs, light enough to avoid drag in the water. The bone hilt carves into the figure of a female. Her tail wraps around the handle, framing a single red jewel.
“This belonged to Amura,” Soren says, following my gaze. “She was our first queen and a strongfighter.” He lifts the knife from its hook and weighs it, then extends it to me. “It’s yours.”
“Mine?” The red jewel glints in the dim light of the room, taunting and delicious. I reach for the hilt.
Soren folds my fingers around the carved handle, his hand warm against mine. He guides it to my hip, where I attach the leather sheath to my belt. His body presses against my back, and suddenly I am warm all over. The damp chill of the room dissipates until it’s just me and his body heat, the brush of his skin against mine. His breath skitters over my shoulder as he bends to kiss my neck.
“Enna,” he whispers. His lips trace the slope of my neck, landing in the pocket between my shoulder and collarbone. I lean into him, exposing more of that delicate flesh for him to explore. “I want to—I need to—” He grunts and shakes his head.
“Fish got your tongue?” I tease.
“Not just any fish, Wicked.” He laughs. “It’s you. You’ve hooked me so deeply; I fear I may never rip free.”
My spines flex, lifting from their sheaths.
“We may be hiding from my uncertain demise, but I meant to bring you here tonight. Here, in the hall of my ancestors, to ask you an important question.”
His hands skim the length of my spines, shaking with nerves.
I turn to face him, placing my hand on his chest. He stares down at me with wild, thirsty eyes, as if he’s on the brink of dying and I’m his spring of eternal life.
“This dagger is nice, but I was thinking something more…” He turns me around, grasping my shoulders. With a gentle push, he leads me to a wall of jewelry. “Official.”
We stop before a cluster of rings, housed in a pocket carved from the white stone wall. Hundreds of rings. Each one nestles in its own velvet bed. The gems glimmer in the dim light—each a different color, different metal. Some large, some small. My mouth waters at the lavishness of them.
Slowly, Soren reaches for one with a shimmering, opal stone, the very same I would have picked for myself. He holds it flat on his palm, the soft curves of the silver band ominous in the dark lighting. He meets my eyes and the corner of his mouth curls into a smile.
Then he settles onto one knee, taking my hand into his. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, and my heart flutters.
When he speaks again, his mouth cherishes every syllable. “Enna, my beautiful darkness. Queen of my heart. I offer you this ring as a token of my devotion. I’d very much like to marry you.”
His voice penetrates to the deepest parts of me and tugs on some plug within my heart. All the feelings I’ve kept locked up tight—hope, joy, love—swirl and rush for the opening. It all trickles out, washing through every dry crevice within me. I’m standing on dry land, here in the bowels of a foreign palace, and I’ve never felt more saturated.
Soren looks at me expectantly, his thumb tracing the back of my hand. I part my lips, my answer at the ready, and then—
A whispered Voice. Grinding gears. A soft grunt. Slow gliding of leather against stone. My ears prick toward the door. I lock eyes with Soren, his brimming with hope.
“She’s here,” I whisper.
If Soren wasn’t such a goddessdamn beast of a male, I would pick him up myself and carry him out of this room. If Odissa is here, then he needs to be as far away from here as possible, somewhere safe. Where he can disappear until Tephra comes to claim Odissa’s soul.
Soren stands, nudging me behind him, placing himself as a barrier between me and the doorway.
Odissa glides into the chamber on silent feet, wreathed in candlelight and holding a bloody trident. Her mottled hand flexes around the long, golden handle, caked in dried blood. Her hair is loose and wild, stained with grime and gore. Behind her, the body of the magic-wielder bleeds on the marble, his eyes wide and glassy.
“This doesn’t look like an apology, Enna. I brought you here to help me, and you fucked my prince.”
“You’re not welcome here, Aris. Or do you prefer Odissa?” Soren spits.
“It seems the fish is out of the net. Unsurprising.”
Odissa catalogs his posture—his arm curling protectively around me. My stomach churns as her expression changes from her usual apathy into undiluted rage. She glares at me, as if she might murder me with a single look.
“Oh, this is grand. He thinks he loves you. Ha! YOU!” Odissa’s voice is as piercing and cold as the Drink. “Enna Valomir, whatever should I do with you?”
“Speak her name again, and I’ll rip out your throat.” Soren steps forward, the picture of a predator, with clenched fists.
She cocks her head. “I’ve always wanted a guardfish. You’ve trained this one well. Tell me, were you planning to loot him before or after you turn down that heart-warming proposal? Because I can’t imagine the trench-scum I know would be in this room for any reason other than the money. That was our original deal, was it not? Help me win the prince’s heart and then you can finally run.”
