Page 217 of Royal Rebel

Imara’s heart rate quickened. “What?”

“You did not tell me that Jekem—one of your own bodyguards—attempted to assassinate you. You were supposed to tell me everything that has been happening in Mortise, and you did not.”

Imara’s spine straightened. She remembered the night of his inquisition. How she’d stood before him, because she had refused to sit. “I didn’t lie,” she said evenly. “I just didn’t think about Jekem. You were more interested in Mortise anyway.”

“I told you I wouldn’t be pleased if you left anything out.” His eyes narrowed. “I am not pleased, Imara.”

“Skyer, I—”

“Eilan,” he gritted out. “You will call meEilan.”

The anger in his voice was low but dangerous.

A tendril of fear rippled through her. Uncomfortable, Imara shifted in her chair. “Eilan, I’m sorry you’re upset. I truly didn’t think to tell you about Jekem. He tried to kill me, yes, but he disappeared. We hadn’t heard anything in—”

“A man tried to kill you—because he doesn’t want you to marry me—and you didn’t think that was relevant?” His tone was softer, but no less furious.

Imara stared at him. “I . . . don’t know how you wish me to answer.”

He strode toward her. Her breathing thinned as his hands—one still horribly bloody—landed on the arms of her chair and his face descended to hang level with her own. “I wish you to tell me the truth, Imara. In all things.”

The blood on his shirt was so close, she could smell the metallic tang of it. She wanted to sink back in the chair—anything to put distance between them. But she refused to cower. “I did not deliberately keep this from you,” she said, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice.

One dark eyebrow rose. “Is there anything else you may have forgotten to tell me?”

Her thoughts flashed to Desfan. His confession, and hers. She swallowed hard. “No.”

Skyer watched her too long. Too intently.

She braced herself, though for what, she didn’t know. He hadn’t raised his voice—not once. And he’d never lifted a hand against her.

His eyes drifted down to her lips.

Her pulse quickened.

Skyer grasped her chin with his blood-smeared hand and tipped her head back.

Her neck strained, and her stomach squirmed as his mouth descended, landing firmly on hers.

His lips were hard. Bruising. Controlling, and dominant. He kissed her like it was a punishment—or a branding reminder that she would not soon forget.

When he finally pulled back, Imara’s eyes stung.

Skyer noted the sheen of moisture. She knew it, because the corner of his mouth lifted fractionally. “You will not forget me again, Imara. You will not forget my name, or the fact that you belong to me. I will make sure of it.” He released her chin and took a step back.

Her heart pounded. Her skin burned from his touch, and the slickness of the blood that now clung to her chin—Jekem’s blood—made her gut churn. She wanted to swipe her hand over her mouth, but she didn’t dare. Not when Skyer was watching her.

“You left before the engagement rites could be completed,” he said. “Luckily, one of my men has the skills to perform the clan ceremony. He will do so at dawn.”

Panic flooded her. “But—my family should be present.”

“They should have been,” he agreed. “But you chose to run, and this cannot wait any longer.”

Imara stared at him, hating everything about the face before her. The smugness. The arrogance. The mere fact that this man could kiss her, and she could not protest. That she effectively belonged to him, even now, before a single wedding vow was uttered.

Most of all, she hated that there was nothing she could do about it.

“You are mine,” Skyer said, echoing her thoughts. “Perhaps if you look the part, you will remember that fact and respect me enough to tell me everything—always.” He took another step back. “I’m going to wash this blood off. You stay here; I’ll escort you to your room once it’s been readied.” He smirked then. “I do think it will be soon, like the serjan promised. He seems particularly attentive to your needs. That is something we might use before we return home.”

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