Threaded, p.14
Threaded, page 14
If he was going to disappoint her, he might as well start now.
“And I look forward, Mariah,” he growled, pushing her name through clenched teeth, leaning further into her space, “to seeing just how much you’ll come to regret this decision tonight. To seeing how much I don’t belong here.” With that, he leaned away, just enough to meet her gaze, and smirked at the confusion and shock he found written in those hypnotic green eyes.
She thought for a moment before narrowing her gaze. “This wasn’t my choice. And I gave you an out, remember? You are the one who had the choice. You didn’t have to swear the oath.”
“Did I not?”
They were silent for too many heartbeats, their gazes suddenly locked, neither wishing to back down first. He wanted nothing more to do with her, but by the Goddess there was something about those emerald eyes that made him want to rise to her challenge, to meet her head-on, to break her and make her his.
Wait … what?
She released his hand just as that last thought filtered through his head, pushing away from him too quickly. He watched as she tried to twist her lips back into a smile, managing an expression that only resembled a grimace. He watched her, holding his features still as stone, trying desperately to get control of himself and the shadows twisting just under his skin.
Finally, blessedly, she turned on her heel, putting her back to him as she strode to the altar at the front of the room.
Andrian ignored the way she moved with athletic grace over the ground. Ignored the way her hips swayed with each step. Ignored the way the black lace of her dress caught and pulled and swirled around her legs.
He followed after her, passing over the stares of the six other men who now stood around that altar. They were as close to him as brothers; they’d been Marked as children, moved to the capital together, trained as a single unit to protect a queen they hadn’t met—or, for most of them, would never meet. Not the way seven of them would.
Andrian should’ve been part of that majority. The odds were in his favor.
But he’d never been particularly lucky.
He loosened the damper on his magic, just enough to release the pressure building beneath his skin. As he stepped into a dark corner beside the dais, wreathed in the same shadows that crawled beneath his skin, tendrils of darkness spindled off his shoulders and into the blackness above.
Hidden, dark, quiet.
Just how he preferred to keep his curse.
Unlike most magic, this was no gift. Or at least, it hadn’t been bestowed by any god or goddess of Onita. Only a few knew of it—the other men in this room being part of that select few—and he’d only been able to grapple with the gift after reading those dusty old manuscripts he’d found in the library.
His only other connection to that side of his blood—the mother from the northern kingdom of Leuxrith—was lost to him not long after he’d been Marked.
Andrian hated thinking about his mother and the accident that stole her gentle soul from the world.
Distantly, he heard the high priestess, Ksee, say a few pompous words to bring the ceremony to a close. She and Queen Ryenne dismissed the lucky men who would go forth with the rest of their lives, bearing the Mark on their chests but with their necks free of the noose of the Selection oath. Andrian felt almost wistful as he watched them file out of the room, followed closely by Ryenne and the priestess.
His feeling vanished as his attention settled back on Ksee, watching her back sharply as she strode out of the temple doors. He’d never liked that priestess. Something about her set his teeth on edge, made him uneasy in much the same way his father and the other lords of the kingdom always had.
And now, he would never be free. Of her, of the Royals, of his father …
Andrian found, in that moment, another reason to hate his new queen.
Unbidden, as if pulled by the thought, his eyes darted to where she still stood on the dais. Another crash of lightning raced through him when he found her staring back at him.
She had that smile on her lips again, the one that made his skin crawl. She was a dark witch hiding in a young woman’s skin.
He ignored the knot in his stomach. Narrowed his eyes. Smiled wickedly back.
Her grin faltered, just slightly, before she wrenched her gaze from his. Her attention drifted over the remaining men gathered around her—her new Armature, he realized with a sudden jolt.
Of which he was now one.
He used her distracted attention to survey who was to be his eternal brother, to join him forever in this damnation within the walls of the palace. He spotted Sebastian, along with his younger brother, Matheo. Then there was the one whose father had been Kreah—Feran—and beside him was quiet, ever-brooding Drystan. Finally, there were Quentin and Trefor, both of them usually more interested in fucking around than taking anything seriously.
Not that anyone could tell that now, though. Not with their chests puffed out in pride as they waited patiently for their new queen to speak, already lost to her spell.
It made Andrian sick.
Finally, Mariah broke the expectant silence.
“If I’m being honest … I’m not exactly sure what to say right now.” Her voice was the same it had been earlier: soft and strong and flirtatious. Quentin, Matheo, and Trefor chuckled, and smiles touched the faces of Sebastian and Feran. Only Drystan remained quiet, but amusement glimmered in his eyes in the flickering candlelight.
Andrian only seethed.
“I’m … very excited to get to know each of you,” Mariah continued, meeting each of their gazes—even Andrian’s, a fleeting glance that moved past him as fast as it could. “I’m sure you all know that you’re now expected to move into the quarters in the queen’s wing—”
“Everything will be handled, My Queen.” It was Sebastian who spoke. Sebastian, who had always been their level-headed and self-assured leader. On most days, Andrian considered him his best friend.
Right now, though, he only wanted to strangle him. And he wasn’t exactly sure why.
The only thing that kept Andrian rooted in place was his glance at Mariah; at the blush that slowly began to crawl its way up her cheeks. It filled her features with a curious sort of innocence, an innocence he suspected she’d not had in years. Suddenly, his mind was filled with a myriad of images, ideas, ways he might one day get her flushed with that color all the way down her pretty little neck—
No. He would not entertain those thoughts now.
He would not entertain those thoughts, ever.
The blush still on her cheeks, Mariah responded to Sebastian, “Oh … okay. That’s great. I, um … I think I’ll return to my rooms now. This whole day … these past two days, in fact … have been overwhelming, to say the least.” A sheepish grin. Another wave of chuckles. Even Drystan smiled softly this time.
Andrian gritted his teeth so hard he worried they might crack.
“Of course, My Queen.” It was Sebastian again. By the Goddess, could he please stop talking to her? “Please, let me escort you.”
Andrian lurched at those words, almost driven out of the comfort of his shadowy alcove.
But he halted himself just in time. Regained control of his body, his mind, his fucking senses.
This was good, he reminded himself. It was good for her to focus on the others.
It would keep her attention off him. And he wanted nothing more than to remain in his darkness, shrouded by his shadows.
So he held himself still as he watched her smile at Sebastian.
“Mariah,” she said, in that lilting, musical voice. “My name is Mariah. I want you all to call me by my name.”
And even though it was the first order issued by his queen, Andrian vowed to never follow it. He wouldn’t call her by her name, not to her face.
Not until the stars winked out and the moons fell from the sky.
A grin spread across his face again just as Sebastian nodded.
“We would be honored … Mariah.”
Andrian choked back a snort.
Ignoring him in his dark alcove, Mariah smiled brilliantly at Sebastian, stepping forward to take his offered arm. She let him turn her, lead her toward the temple doors. Right before they passed through the doorway, though, she twisted her head back over her shoulder, immediately finding Andrian’s gaze. Her smile turned dark, the face of the temptress again ghosted over her face, before she whipped her head back to face forward, disappearing through the open doorway.
Andrian let loose a growl, low and deep in his throat, as his brothers filed out after them. He was soon alone in the darkness of the temple with nothing but his shadows and his thoughts.
She was intoxicating, dangerous, beautiful, the source of new obsession he couldn’t quell even if he tried.
And he hated her for it.
CHAPTER 17
Mariah reveled in the burning in her lungs, the feeling of sweat dripping between her shoulder blades, the sound of her feet rhythmically pounding the soft earth beneath her.
She’d awoken before the sun had even crested over the horizon, pulled from the clutches of sleep, her mind on fire, memories of the past week flashing by like shooting stars. Last night, Sebastian had deposited her into her rooms before excusing himself to move into his own neighboring quarters.
Finally alone, Mariah had showered quickly, the water hot and scalding against her skin, before dressing in a long, soft cotton tunic and curling herself into the outrageously comfortable bed.
She’d tried to rest, tried to shut off her mind, but sleep had evaded her. She’d sat up in bed, moonlight filtering in through her bedroom window, and suddenly her attention was drawn to the discarded saddle bags still strewn about her floor. Clothing spilled haphazardly onto the floor, along with a few sheathed throwing knives, a flask of her father’s whiskey …
And there. The book her mother had given her that last night in Andburgh. Mariah slipped out from beneath the thick comforter, padding to the pile on the floor. In a smooth movement, she’d picked up both the book and that flask of whiskey before settling herself on the seat below the window, pulling a heavy gold blanket over her legs.
She’d stared at the book for a long moment, taking a heavy swig of the whiskey. The burn of the liquor settled low in her stomach, dulling the edges of the unusual nervousness that had swept over her the second her fingers touched the smooth leather binding. She’d read that strange word inscribed onto the cover in silver foiling—Ginnelevé—over and over and over until the twists in her gut settled and the whiskey buzzed around her vision.
It was only then that she dared to open the book, to fan through the pages until her fingers caught on a single page. She’d taken another swig of whiskey, and then began to read.
I had a dream last night.
I dreamed of silver and gold flames, of leathery wings, both blazing and shadowed.
I dreamed of that which was feared, saving us all.
And I dreamed that without darkness, we can never experience the light.
She’d sighed. Of course, she should’ve known. Her mother, the airy dreamer she was, would be the one to give her a book filled with nonsensical gibberish. But even as Mariah thought those words, something in her recoiled. Her mother’s words from that night by the fire flashed through her mind for the second time that day.
“If—when—you ever feel lost, truly lost, when you need a reminder of who you are and what you are capable of … that book will tell you everything you need to know.”
Well, she certainly didn’t need a reminder of that at this moment. She was exhausted and shocked, and more than a bit unsettled, but somehow had never felt more like herself than she had in that temple. It startled her, to feel so comfortable in a position she’d only expected to hate.
She took another swig of whiskey and turned the page.
This page…it was very different, but still very much the same. The writing was gibberish still, but even more chaotic, the words scrawled haphazardly across the fine cream paper. They overlapped each other, making it difficult to make out exactly what they said, but as Mariah continued to study it, she suddenly realized with a jolt what it said.
Repeated, over and over again across that page, was the phrase, “Love is my strength.”
Mariah instantly felt sick and slammed the book shut. She tossed it on the ground, far away from her, and had stared at it as feelings of horror and unease sifted through her like sand.
When she’d regained control of the bile that had clawed its way up her throat, when she’d forced her hands to stop shaking and her palms to stop sweating, she’d stood from the bench, picked up the book, and tucked it firmly beneath her mattress before settling herself back into the plush depths of her bed, exhaustion finally nipping at her heels.
As she’d faded into sleep, that familiar voice whispered its familiar mantra, a soothing dictum she was much more comfortable living by:
Love is a weakness.
Suddenly choking on her heaving breath, Mariah was thrust back into the present, the smell of fall leaves burning her nose as she slowed herself to a walk. She’d heard that voice again, just now, as clearly as if someone had whispered into her ear, its sudden reminder ripping her from her memories of the night. Her eyes wandered idly as her mind returned to her body. She took in the woods around her; the sounds and smells and sights were so familiar, reminded her so much of the forest around her family’s cottage it almost hurt.
The palace game park was situated behind the stables, and after a few pointed questions to a young stable hand, Mariah found the trailhead with ease. The woods were nestled in a valley between the western walls of the palace and the great rise of the Attlehon mountains, the ground slowly sloping up as the elevation increased into the foothills. Despite the bustling modernities available in both the palace and in Verith, it was clear to Mariah that the early queens—perhaps even Xara herself—had wanted to keep a small piece of the true wildness of Onita close to their home.
She continued to catch her breath as she walked along the forest trail, losing herself in the sound of birds and the rustle of the light fall breeze through the trees. The weather was cooling rapidly with each passing day, and while Verith was a coastal city, the Attlehon Mountains swept cold weather from their heights down towards the palace and the mountain district. Her run this morning was a bit of an impulse—when her mind had pulled her from sleep, all she’d craved was a chance to release some of the cornered energy starting to fester in her body.
Familiar sounds suddenly filled her ears. It was not the sounds of birds or winds or anything that belonged there in the depths of the woods.
No, it was the sound of warriors training.
Curiosity spurred her feet back into a jog, following the sounds of clashing metal and shouting voices.
Male voices, specifically.
Mariah rounded a corner and found herself standing at the edge of a large clearing, halting abruptly to keep herself concealed within the shadows of the thick tree line. The clearing was outfitted as a training space, complete with racks of dulled training weapons and equipment. A large pit had been dug up in the center of the clearing and filled with packed sand, a ring to practice hand-to-hand combat, and another ring was marked in the grass, clearly for sparring. Targets were arranged in a line across the clearing, more racks of longbows and recurve bows and crossbows ready for target practice. And those male voices she’d heard …
It was her Armature.
All seven of them were there, dressed in training gear. Sebastian and Quentin circled each other in the sand pit, dodging each other expertly, a wild smile on Quentin’s face that matched his fiery hair. Drystan, Matheo, and Trefor were leaning against one of the weapons racks, watching the two in the ring, letting out a shout or a jeer every so often whenever one of the sparring males got close enough to the other to land a blow. Mariah’s gaze continued to idly wander, pulled away from the sand pit to the dueling ring by another clash of steel on steel.
It was there that she found Feran and Andrian, locked in a fierce duel, sweat dripping from their faces. Feran wielded two Kreah shortswords, much like those preferred by Mariah herself, but with blades curved into a wicked sickle shape. Andrian carried a single double-edged longsword, but the way he moved with it …
Mariah was mesmerized as she watched the two men circle each other, their years of training evident in every move. Feran was fierce and fast, his dark skin flushed with exertion and slick with sweat, his skill with the twin blades of his people clear with every swipe and parry.
But it was nothing compared to the way Andrian moved. He wielded his sword as if it were an extension of his own arm, anticipating every move Feran handed him, easily blocking and twisting in the morning air. Despite his height, he moved with an animalistic grace, his movements a near blur. Suddenly, he dropped to the ground, Feran’s slash missing right over his head just as Andrian’s leg shot out, swiping at Feran and forcing him off his feet. Feran tumbled to the ground, losing his grip on his blades just as Andrian rose, pinning Feran where he lay, the tip of his sword touching the vulnerable skin of Feran’s throat.
Feran’s chest rumbled as if he were chuckling before he spoke to Andrian. Mariah was too far away to hear his words, but she saw the laugh on Feran’s lips as he extended a hand up, as Andrian lowered his sword and took it, pulling Feran to his feet.
A genuine smile then touched Andrian’s face. Mariah was nearly knocked sideways by the force of it. Not just because of how surprising and unusual it seemed … but of how inhumanly attractive Andrian looked in that moment. The twist of his lips lifted his defined cheekbones, the angle of his chin softening, his white teeth flashing against his tan skin.
What unfortunate thoughts to be having. There were six other men in this clearing to occupy her time with; there was no need to concern herself with that prick.
But watching him there, in the clearing as he trained with Feran … He was so comfortable with his fellow Armature. He was almost a different man here: open, warm, inviting. A leader.
