Page 84 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen
“Come in,” he says, patting the seat next to him. “I saved you a seat.”
The storm picks up as if he summoned fresh lightning just to silhouette my entrance. My heels click across the polished stones, each step echoing in my spine.
The chiffon dress hugs my waist, then floats down both sides of my body like spilled ink, the shorter hem in front offering ascandalous view of my bare thighs. My cold, peaked breasts, the absence of a weapon, and Alaric’s scrutiny all contribute to my restlessness as I stop across from the Warden of Lightning Point.
“Your brothers?” I ask, chin high. “They don’t eat with you?”
A slow smile unfurls across his face, more ominous than thunder rolling in. He stands but doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he rounds the table to pull out my chair.
“I don’t like to share,” he says at last. “Not food. Not wine.” His eyes rake down the dress. “And certainly not the most beautiful woman in the worlds.”
I sit to his right, close enough for him to touch, and my pulse spikes.
There is no orchestra here. No gathered court. Just the clatter of silverware, the eerie sway of the firelight pendulums above our heads, and a man who would rather feast alone with a stranger than the people he’s known all his life. Which means either Alaric Rayne doesn’t have any friends, or he doesn’t want any witnesses.
Brel carries in the wine and entrees as soon as my ass touches the chair. The ingredients are not fancy, but a lot of thought has gone into the presentation. Stacked potatoes with buttery cream wrapped with ribbons of cooked leeks, seaduck meat, and root vegetables to the side. These shadowy parts of the continent are ill-equipped to grow food. The Storm Court relies mostly on imports from Spring and Summer, as their greenhouse efforts in the Brimvale province are nowhere near enough to sustain their population.
My mouth waters at the pleasant aromas rising from the offered meal as I pick up my utensils, my ankles crossed and spine straight.
Alaric devours me with the intensity of a bird of prey, his gaze fixed on the asymmetrical cut of my dress, all the more scandalous now that I’m seated. The velvet cushion rubs againstmy inner thighs, and I simply have to break the charged silence before I do something rash.
“The citadel is a lot grander than I expected. Must be a pain to maintain a building of this size in a land that consistently tries to chip away at it,” I say.
“That’s the beauty of it, no? Things that withstand adversity become even more precious.” Alaric finally stops staring long enough to cut his meat.
I mask a sigh of relief as I do the same.
“The late Storm King didn’t like it mentioned, but way back when,” he says, his gaze drawn to the flicker of candlelight against the shiny black table, “during the Mist Wars, the royal family lived here—at the heart of the storm.”
“And now it belongs to the powerful warden of a forsaken city,” I say in a cajoling tone.
He glances at me with something like amusement—or warning. “You truly don’t know, do you? When you and Seth first appeared, I thought for sure you were sent here to kill me.”
I arch a brow. “I wasn’t sent here to kill you.”
“Then how do you explain this?” He slides the sheath of my end-all blade from his belt and slams it on the table. “Brel found it in your room.”
Bloody hells.
“Now, one would wonder why you’d leave such a weapon sheathed under your pillow if you were indeed sent to kill me, but it’s rude to carry such things inside one’s home.”
“It wasn’t meant for you,” I blurt out, eager to disperse his suspicions.
“I’m inclined to believe you.”
“So I can have it back?” I joke, the duck and potatoes long forgotten.
His eyes flare up. “Not just yet.”
Instead of answering, he stands and shrugs his dinner jacket off, discarding it over the blade. My face crumples when he starts unbuttoning his shirt, and my breath catches.
I force a bit of warmth into my voice as I say, “A woman likes to be wined and dined first, my lord.”
Alaric discards his dress shirt and peels his undershirt over his head in one smooth motion.
The air shifts.By Eros!
A jackal is inked into his side. The black tattoo undulates under the flames, the eyes of the animal glowing like it's watching me. But it’s not just the lifelike creature that steals my breath—it’s the chaos surrounding it. Pale red tendrils stretch out from the mark, webbing over his torso, his shoulders—even his arms—like bolts of lightning are trapped beneath the skin. Not scars, but raw, throbbing, flesh.
