Page 130 of Burn

Well. The king might be facing a taste of his own medicine in the near future. At least Spring, Autumn, and Winter agreed on this one course of action.

This time, my genuflection was more gracious. “Enjoy the revels, Your Majesties.”

“And you.” Despite herself, Fatima’s lips twitched amicably. “Your Highness.”

***

My heels clacked against the floor as I rushed through the corridors. Reaper’s Fest would begin soon. Before then, I was eager to tell Poet what had transpired.

Rounding a corner, I hastened through a door and skidded to a halt. A long gallery had been renovated into a practice hall, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors affixed to the walls. It replicated the design of a Spring dance studio, where resident performers would train and rehearse.

But this hall belonged to only one person.

My heart vaulted into my throat at the sight of him. Leaning against the jamb, I watched the jester spin and twist across the polished floor like a sculpture in motion. Bare-chested and garbed in nothing but a pair of loose pants, his arms and legs synchronized, those cobbled muscles inflating and flexing as he veered from one end of the space to the other. The man moved like liquid, like shadows, and like the air itself.

A mixture of concentration and intensity strung across his face, akin to how I felt whenever I opened a book, harvested, or led Autumn’s people. We’d talked late into the night about our passions many times, yet his affinities still captivated me.

I would marry him someday soon. But he would always remain this way to me.

My jester.

He spun like a disk, spiraling in full rotations, before launching into a sequence of complex flips. The mirror’s reflection enhanced his attributes, so that I could not resist lingering on those powerful forearms, the clench of his shoulder blades, or the tightness of his backside. No man should be this embellished or striking. Even when disheveled, he looked impeccable.

His panting ceased. My eyes jumped from Poet’s buttocks to his mischievous eyes, which gleamed at me in the mirror’s surface. Mid-twirl, he’d caught me snooping.

He couldn’t have been training for long. Otherwise, perspiration would have laminated his torso, yet he hadn’t yet broken a sweat. With his chest rising and caving, that smooth abdomen rippled down to the slender trail of hair abutting his waistband.

In the mirror’s reflection, Poet’s lips tilted. “Don’t princesses knock?”

Caught in the act, I flushed. “I’m sor—”

“Nay.” He wheeled toward me and sauntered my way. “Never apologize for admiring this specimen.”

“You rarely cease to amaze me,” I pretended to scold, despite the bashful heat racing up my throat.

Poet nodded, as if that had been his plan. Amber and vetiver stirred my senses as he halted inches from me. His pupils expanded, brushing up and down my form. In addition to the wide bun at my crown, encircled by the oak leaf braid and the rose in my hair—with the thorns carefully pinned away from my scalp—I’d chosen a black, sleeveless gown with a high collar of ruffled lace that flounced around my neck.

No jewelry. Only the scarlet ribbon.

Poet took in the ensemble, his attention lingering on the rose he’d given me, pleasure alighting his gaze. The breath in his chest hitched. And I thought of the last time he looked at me this way, during our spellbinding dance at the market, then when he fucked me lovingly against the shed, and afterward when he gave my lips the gentlest kiss I’d ever known.

“Behold, an enchantress.” Slipping an arm around my middle, Poet tugged me against him. “You devastate me, Highness.”

My grin broadened. I could not stop thinking about the night market. Rather, I wanted him like that again, a thousand times, in a million more ways. I wanted my body to break his until he came so loudly, the noise cracked through the sky. Seasons, this jester made me feel like an innocent one moment and a temptress the next.

And always, a leader. Always, his counterpart.

I opened my mouth to reciprocate when an elated voice chimed into the room. “Papa! Briar Patch!”

We turned as Nicu bounded into the dance gallery. Jubilation sparkled in his wide eyes, and Tumble galloped in the boy’s wake. In preparation for tonight, a stag mask swung from a harness at Nicu’s belt. Dressed in an outfit of bronze and sage, and with the ferret squeaking beside him, the jovial child looked every bit the little Royal fae.

I chuckled as Nicu slammed into my side and clasped me into a tight hug before sprinting to his father, those scanty arms outstretched. Poet squatted, snatched his son, and hoisted the child into his arms. Meanwhile, Tumble ran circles around them.

“That’s quite the spiffy attire,” Poet complimented. “Dare I say, you’ll outshine us all.”

“You picked it for me,” Nicu said, poking his father in the chest.

“Mmm. That, I did. Isn’t it nice having the consultation of a connoisseur?”

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