Page 18 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen
Scoundrel
SETH
The gossip around the Royal Academy was that meeting Devi Eros for the first time was like being kicked in the nuts while a nymph went down on you. Nymphs are vicious beasts that don’t exactly cater to the sexual needs of the Fae, so I’ve always struggled to understand the comparison.
But I do now.
A wild cascade of red locs flows down her back, burning as fiercely as the woman herself. Some claim she moves like an ensnarer vine, others like a serpent, but all agree on one thing—no one walks away from her unchanged. She’s dangerous.
Her freckles scatter across her face like embers left behind by a dying fire. They form a constellation of deep-brown clusters across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, as if the gods themselves had traced their fingers there, marking her as their kin.
I wish I could kiss each and every single one of them.
The fitted bodice of her black dress molds her luscious curves, while the airy, flared skirt shifts just enough to reveal the alluring shape of her buttocks. By the looks of it, she’s notwearing anything underneath. The scent of her arousal lingers in the air, and my mouth dries up, thirsty for it.
“Tea?” she asks, handing me a tiny, steaming cup with no handle.
An intricate white and blue fleur-de-lys adorns the sides, and I swallow hard. I’m in a witch’s hut, being offered tea by a woman who wants my entire family dead, but still, I bring the cup to my lips. “Sure.”
Steam curls into the air, carrying the earthy smell of the burgundy, honey-tinged liquid. The first breath is bright, citrusy, with a freshness that lingers at the back of my throat. Beneath it, a quiet bitterness is threaded with the taste of crushed stems and dried hay.
My cock pulses in my trousers, and while my interest lies solely in the tea I could drink off her body, I welcome the calming balm it brings. The aftertaste of poppies blooms on my tongue, faintly sweet, a whisper of something floral, like petals left to wither in the sun.
I take another sip. “Do you want to lull me to sleep, Violet?”
“Never call me that,” she clips, her tone sharp.
My brow lifts. So far, she’s been careful not to let me glimpse any emotion besides irritation. I can tell she’s a talented poker player from the cold way she dismissed her lover and the fake, sugary smiles she uses to cover up any hint of humanity.
I offer her a dismissive shrug. “It’s your name.”
Violet “Devi” Eros is a name spoken like a curse in my mother’s court, a myth draped in flesh and blood. Growing up, the men whispered about her beauty, even though the mere mention of her name was treason. They said her piercing eyes could worm their way through a heart with a single look, and that her smooth brown skin glowed under the sun.
Devi might have lost her crown, but she’s still the one and only Queen of Hearts.
The tea helps with the lust, the pain in my groin subsiding, which I suspect was the whole point. But her matching cup tells me I wasn’t the only one that needed to simmer down.
She moves away from the bar, retreating to the farthest corner of the kitchenette, her hands curling around her cup. “You’re bluffing. Freya would never let me come back. She’d send her armies after me the second she learned of my return.”
“She’s fond of me, you know. I’m her only child.”
“That’s not enough.”
I tilt my head. “How isolated are you? Have you heard from Faerie recently?”
Devi lifts the cup to her lips without taking a sip. “I heard about the chalice being melted, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”
I shift to brutal honesty. “If my mother doesn’t survive the wounds she suffered during the attack on the capital, it’s likely that her magic will revert back to you.”
Devi chews on her bottom lip, eyes half-mast, then breathes, “How do you figure that?”
“Educated guess.”
She finally drinks her own brew, relieving me of the fear it might be poisoned. “Seems like I only have to sit tight and wait for her to croak, then. Why should I risk my life and return to Faerie now?” She braces her elbows on the counter between us, the motion dragging my attention down to her cleavage.
Being presented with the ultimate model of beauty and lust is a test of will. I have to play this right, or I might fall into the trap I’ve been running from my entire life: lusting for something I’ll never be allowed to have.
I know she’s my enemy, and if I ever forgot, the grievances pulsing in her silver-flecked irises would beat me over the head with it. But I can’t help myself.
