Page 13 of Burning Her Beautiful
I circle behind her, gather her braid in my hands. I tug free the silver vine clasp, letting dark waves spill. She stiffens but does not pull away. “I plan to test your poise,” I say, voice near her ear. “Not your pain.”
Her breath leaves on a controlled exhale. “Very well.”
I step in front, sit beside her instead of looming. I take her left foot into my lap, thumb sliding along arch. She jerks, not in fear, but surprise at tenderness. The draw of those reactions—small, genuine—is more potent than power games in the throne room.
“Balance is more than stance on a balcony rail,” I tell her. “It dwells in nerves, in breath.” I press acupoints along her sole, coaxing muscles to loosen. She watches my face, one hand curled at her thigh, unsure if she may touch me. I finish both feet, then shift, pulling her to stand.
“Walk across the room,” I instruct. “Slow.”
She does. Hips sway with natural grace, gown sweeping. I watch the confident roll of shoulders, the dip of waist. She stops at the far hearth, glances back.
“Again,” I say.
The second walk she exaggerates poise, chin higher, stride longer. When she reaches me I catch her by elbows, twirl her half turn so her spine meets my chest. My arms fold around her waist. She inhales sharply.
“Balance while blind,” I whisper, covering her eyes with one hand. “Trust me to guide.”
Her body firms, but she nods. I move her backward, one step, two. She matches me, feet bare on tile, each breath measured. My palm slides from eyes to throat, thumb at pulse. Her head tips against my shoulder, exposing column of neck.
I lower mouth to that tender skin, stop a hair’s breadth away, breathe in her scent. She shivers, throat working. The temptation to kiss almost topples restraint. Instead I move lipsto the shell of her ear. “I could demand surrender,” I murmur. “Yet I find I want it offered freely.”
Her fingers rise, grip my forearm where runes glow faintly. “And if I refuse?”
“Then I continue wanting.” One hand drops to cinch of corset, feeling her stomach flutter under laces. “Want can be an exquisite ache.”
She breathes my name, part request, part warning. It slices reason. I pivot her to face me, hands braced on either side of her ribs.
“That night in the Sanctum,” she says, voice low, “you halted the blade for reasons beyond courage. Tell me those reasons.”
Dangerous ground. I curl one hand in her hair, tilt her face up. Dawn light sets green gems in her eyes afire. “I saw a future in which killing you felt like killing the last honest part of myself.”
She draws breath that trembles, lashes fluttering. “Honesty scares you.”
“I have waded through centuries of deceit. Honesty sets new wars under skin.” I step back before desire frays reins. “Dress for dusk. We leave at first star.”
She nods, voice thready. “Understood.”
I head for the door but pause at threshold. “Iliana.”
She looks up.
“I may rule the storm,” I tell her, “yet you command the lightning that splits it.”
Color rises on her cheeks. My heart kicks hard, and I escape before temptation roots me to the spot.
Preparation consumes the afternoon. I stalk corridors, barking orders to staff. Vines must coil just so, guests corralled within safe rings, wine reinforced with mild sedative to blunt panic if my display grows too wild. Servants scurry faster in my presence today, for I allow no second instructions.
In the weapon room I select a ceremonial blade—slimmer, more ornate than the kirpan—which will hang at my hip tonight. Its handle of carved wenge wood fits palm like memory, though I have never channeled chaos through it. A symbol, not a tool, yet still lethal if needed.
As I secure the buckle, Garrik enters with news. His usually placid stare crackles with unease. “Matron Sarivya has added five human courtiers to her guest roster,” he says. “High-born pets dressed in pearls.”
I grind molars. “To remind me Iliana is expendable.”
He nods, shifting weight. “Also, the king will attend.”
Cold spreads under skin though room stands warm. Asmodeus seldom emerges without fanfare, yet Sarivya has seduced his curiosity. The spectacle must excel.
I dismiss Garrik, then stand before a tall mirror. Silk of my robe has been replaced by close-fitted coat stitched from night-green scales that catch light in peacock shimmers. Runes flare beneath skin, eager. Yet beneath that power lurks something less stable—my fixation.
