Rage pounded in her skull, but not solely at him. She hated being snuck up on, and was more furious with herself for allowing him to get that close without her realizing.

  Andrian chuckled darkly. “I saw the door open”—he gestured behind him with a tilt of his head to where the wooden doors were still ajar—shit—“and decided to see who was interested enough in an abandoned wing of the palace to break in.” He flitted his gaze down her body, an unreadable look in his eyes. “Imagine my surprise at finding none other than our little queen dirtying her hands in some old, dusty, forgotten gallery. Didn’t take you for a fan of art or history, nio.”

  “Were you following me?” She didn’t know why she asked the question, but … for some reason, she wouldn’t put it past him.

  His blue gaze flashed. “Trust me, princess, the last thing I want to do is follow you around this palace when I’m off duty,” he growled, pushing off the statue and stalking a single step closer to her.

  Mariah straightened her spine, tensing at his movement. “So you’re telling me it’s a simple matter of chance that you happened to find yourself in the same abandoned wing of the palace?” She scoffed. “Surely, you don’t think I’m stupid enough to believe that.”

  Instead of answering her, Andrian only pressed his full lips into a thin line, meeting her glare unwaveringly. Before she could stop herself, she felt her eyes begin to roam over him, distracted by the sudden, tense silence.

  Goddess, he was outrageously attractive. Toned muscle filled out his tall frame, the thin material of his long-sleeved gray shirt pulled taut over his skin. His brilliant tanzanite-blue gaze glinted with something she couldn’t quite place but felt a lot like a challenge, and the longer he held her stare, the more the line of his mouth relaxed into a slightly crooked grin. She noticed his medium-length raven-black hair looked nothing short of roguish and even more unkempt than usual, as if hands had been run through it recently and repeatedly.

  Either his hands, or … someone else’s.

  The flare of jealousy that ripped through Mariah at the thought was enough to almost knock her off balance, swaying slightly where she stood. Andrian watched her subtle movement, but didn’t say a word.

  What the fuck?

  She wasn’t one to get jealous. Ever. She didn’t want people to care about what she did behind closed doors, and she returned the courtesy. But the feelings washing through her like a damn torrent … they were uncontrollable. A raging riptide she had to get a grip on before the devil standing before her caught on to what was racing through her mind.

  Suddenly, the hands she’d imagined running through his hair to make it so tousled became hers. Just as quickly as it arrived, that wave of jealousy retreated, replaced by something very different.

  Enfara, damn this.

  “You seem distracted, nio. Something on your mind?”

  Mariah again wished that voice could’ve been a bucket of cold water poured over her. However, all it did was further light the fires in her veins, her blood turning to molten lava as heat dropped swiftly into her stomach, lower.

  Get a fucking grip, Mariah.

  “I’m only wondering why, exactly, you chose to stalk me today. Considering you refuse to tell me what you’re doing here, I have to assume that’s what’s happening.”

  Andrian bared his teeth at her in a cruel smile. “Maybe I don’t want to tell you what I’m doing here, princess, because it’s none of your Goddess-damned business.”

  Mariah shrugged. “Fine. Keep your secrets. See if I care.” She cast her glance to the paintings around her, turning her back to Andrian with her best attempt at dismissive ambivalence.

  Without warning, a warm mass slammed into her, spinning her around and pinning her shoulders to the wall beside the silver canvas. Andrian’s eyes were blazing now, his mouth twisted into a snarl as he wrapped a large hand around her throat, his other arm resting on the wall behind them, caging her in. Mariah’s magic instantly leaped into her veins, rising to her skin, subtle silver-gold light drifting into the air around them. Andrian’s gaze darted swiftly from hers to the magic filtering off her skin, a growl rumbling in his chest as he again met her stare.

  “You know nothing of my secrets, nio. All I wanted was some peace and quiet, away from the chaos you’ve brought into this city. But, of course, the gods are cruel and couldn’t even afford me that today.” He leaned closer to her, his warm breath tickling her cheek. “You have no idea how much your presence in this palace is driving me fucking crazy.”

  Goddess, save me.

  The warmth in Mariah’s core was back, and flames licked up her spine. She arched her back, pushing herself slightly closer to him, suddenly finding herself craving his heat, his unpredictability, his anger.

  She’d spent so many years chasing after distractions.

  And as she found herself pinned against the wall in an abandoned gallery, she also found herself craving a new one.

  Perhaps it was time for a little … experiment.

  “Hm,” she breathed, purposefully dropping her gaze to his full lips, the white teeth that were still bared in a snarl. “I wonder. How crazy, exactly, does me being here drive you?” She returned her eyes to his own, the wild blue blazing. “Crazy enough to show me?”

  Her last words were barely more than a whisper, and for several, too-long heartbeats they stared each other down, sharing breath as she let him read every craving she felt for him in the pit of her stomach. She could've sworn she felt him leaning closer to her, pushing her further into the wall, the evidence of the effect of her words on him pressing firmly into her stomach …

  With a sudden, frustrated sound, Andrian released his grip on her throat, pushing off the wall in a single smooth motion before turning on his heel. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he threw his next words over his shoulder, as if careless where they might land.

  “Never crazy enough for that, nio. Not even if the whole world was crashing down around me.”

  He continued for the door as Mariah slumped back against the wall, watching him go. She idly reached a hand up to her neck, tracing the ghostly feeling the imprint of his fingertips had left, watching the muscles of his broad back shift as he marched away. Confusion prickled under her skin, but she didn’t let it surface; choosing instead to stare after him, not wanting to miss a single step until he left the gallery.

  And, sure enough, just before he stepped through the ancient wood doors, he paused, turning just enough to shoot a glance over his shoulder, his dark hair falling errantly into his eyes. Their eyes clashed, just for a moment, but Mariah saw everything she needed to see. She smiled softly to herself as he stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him on those gods-awful hinges.

  Crazy enough, indeed.

  CHAPTER 29

  The creaky fucking hinges on those ancient doors were almost enough to make Andrian turn and land a kick that would’ve splintered the wood into thousands of pieces.

  Almost. But he didn’t.

  Because if he did, that would mean risking another glance at the heated look in those forest-green eyes, the light likely still filtering off her skin, making the cursed shadows in his blood sing in response …

  Fuck. He had to just keep walking.

  It had felt so like that moment in the library, when he’d caught her with some ridiculously titled book. The heat that flared in her gaze had his own body responding like a damn horny teenager, the draw between them suddenly magnetic.

  Not only was it fucking frustrating, but for him, it was forbidden.

  That’s probably why you can’t resist the temptation, asshole.

  He didn’t know why he’d followed Mariah down that abandoned corridor. But when he’d spotted her stalking through the palace hallways, his shadows hiding him from her view, he’d been lured in by that curious look of determination on her face. It was like she’d been searching for something, but didn’t quite know what.

  He didn’t let himself think about how accurate that feeling might’ve been.

  However, he definitely hadn’t meant to follow her into that old, abandoned gallery.

  But he also started to realize his judgment vanished like smoke on a breeze around her.

  He shook his head, growling low in his throat as he stormed down the palace corridor, desperate to put some distance between her and himself. He wound up staircases, through resplendent archways, past opulent gardens, until he was no longer sure where exactly in the palace he was.

  Gods, this palace was fucking ridiculous. He’d lived here most of his life and the sight of all the gold and wealth made him sick.

  And now, it wasn’t the only thing that was making him queasy.

  Get her out of your mind. You got yourself into this mess by letting yourself get Selected, but for gods-sake, you must have the self-control to not make this worse.

  It was a speech he’d repeated to himself over and over, a litany he clung to with everything he had.

  But every time he thought about how she’d bonded with Sebastian, and now Quentin, and how something may have, must have happened with one or both of them, irrational rage heated his bloodstream and twisted his stomach into violent knots.

  He wasn’t jealous. He was no fool; he knew as well as the rest of them what being a member of a Queen’s Armature meant, how those bonds were formed, what feelings the ritual elicited. And he wasn’t blind, either—he could see with his own eyes nothing romantic lingered between Mariah and the two who were now bonded to her.

  But … it was just the thought of someone else touching her. When he’d looked into her eyes, when his hand was wrapped around the soft skin of her neck, her cheeks flushed that infuriating shade of cherry red, he’d been overwhelmed with the feeling that she was his, that no one could touch her skin or see that blush except for him.

  Fucking ridiculous, all of it.

  He shivered, clenching his fists tighter as he pushed his steps faster, stomping up the latest flight of stairs. It was taking every ounce of his control, every mental wall he’d built for so long to keep himself from running back to the dark-haired girl with the glowing skin and forest green eyes and do all the things to her that were currently racing through his head. All she’d just teased him with.

  That was the final straw. Andrian had to get out of that palace.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, he turned right down the hallway and headed west. He was a little turned around, but he knew he would eventually find an exit, the stables, and a horse that could take him into the city. Once there, who knew; maybe he’d find a seedy tavern, drown out his miseries with shitty ale and poor company.

  His pace quickened, his resolve set. Until the sound of voices stopped him dead in his tracks, all thoughts of distraction from a certain dark-haired queen fleeing from his mind.

  “It’s too soon, Victor. If we are not patient, we could lose everything.”

  That voice … he would know it anywhere.

  Andrian’s shadows leaped out of his skin, filtering into the air around him, instantly blending himself into the gloom of the dimly lit hallway. He moved quickly to the wall, pressing his back to the smooth stone as he inched along towards the barely cracked door. He glanced around, and with a whispered curse under his breath, he realized suddenly where he was.

  Every Royal family had both a collection of suites in the palace and a residence in the mountain district down in Verith. Normally, the lords would keep their residence at their manors in the city, opting for opulent seclusion over their comparatively cramped palace quarters. However, after Mariah’s little explosion that had blinded Campion and killed Beauchamp—good riddance, honestly—the Royals had decided to remain a bit longer in the palace before removing themselves to their manors.

  And, of course, that meant Andrian’s father, Lord Julian Laurent, was currently living in the palace. And even once he decided to retreat to his manor in Verith, he wouldn’t return to Antoris until after Mariah’s coronation.

  Which, if Andrian had anything to do with it, would never happen.

  Lord Shawth’s dark chuckle filtered out of the cracked doorway and pulled him from those thoughts.

  “You say that as if we actually have anything at risk. We have the upper hand in everything here, Julian. There is not a single thing that hasn’t gone our way in over two decades.”

  “While I see the positives to our situation, Victor, you know why I’m still unhappy with certain … elements.” Andrian’s father’s voice was brusque, a tone Andrian knew far too well.

  That had often been the tone used right before his father would teach him a “lesson” that almost always ended with Andrian bruised or bleeding on the cold, hard floors of his family’s ancestral keep.

  “Yes, yes.” Andrian could almost picture Shawth waving his hand dismissively in front of his face, could envision the darkening anger setting into his father’s expression. “I know you would have things differently. But all things considered, we couldn’t have gotten luckier. He has truly blessed us.”

  He?

  Another low growl from Lord Laurent. “Are things otherwise situated at Khento?”

  “As I just told you, everything is in order. Julian, trust me; this is our time.” A brief pause, followed by the sound of a soft creak, like someone was shifting in their seat. “The only obstacle left in front of us is … well, her.”

  Andrian went utterly still.

  Maybe they meant Ryenne. She was still the one who held the power in the kingdom. And as long as Mariah never ascended, Ryenne would remain in her state of limbo for …

  Well, he wasn’t sure how long that could last, but he was determined to test it.

  Andrian’s father humphed. “What is it, exactly, that Kol wants?”

  Who in the gods’ names was Kol? Andrian knew Onita’s history better than most, the lost words of the past his hidden passion. Losing himself in events that had already happened always seemed safer than dwelling on whatever horrors he might be subjected to in the present.

  Shawth snorted. “He wants what he’s always wanted—her.” Another creak of a chair. “We have to move now. To bring her to him.”

  “Not now, Victor. It’s too soon. Besides, we hardly have enough proof. Everything you rely upon is speculation; not enough to risk what you’re proposing—”

  “Did you not hear me before, Julian? There is no risk. They are weak, and we have a tool none of them would suspect.”

  Silence followed Shawth’s words. Andrian’s heart pounded in his ears, his shadows twisting tighter around him, pressing him deeper into the darkness of the hall.

  Finally, Lord Laurent spoke again.

  “No.” His voice was low and dangerous. “Ryenne has faithfully served this kingdom for centuries. Because of that, we must give her a chance. Let her prove her worth to our cause. Let’s see what we can get her to give to us willingly, and then we can discuss … other alternatives.”

  The relief that flooded Andrian was immediate and sickening. Ryenne. They were talking about Ryenne. Not Mariah.

  He hated himself for that relief. It was not something he should—could—feel.

  Pulling his shadows back beneath his skin, leaving just enough in the air to conceal him as he slipped from the quiet corridor, Andrian finally continued toward the palace exit. He marched past the stables and stalked into the game park, trying and failing to shove the overheard conversation between his father and the other Onitan lord far from his mind.

  CHAPTER 30

  The clash of metal and the impact in her arms had Mariah clenching her teeth. She grunted softly as she pushed the soles of her feet into the earth, pouring her strength into her arms against the attack she was defending.

  Well … not truly an attack. She darted her eyes to Drystan’s rich brown gaze, the hint of a smile playing on his lips as he stared down at her.

  “You almost missed that block and let me in. Sloppy defense, Mariah.”

  She flashed him a joking snarl before shoving her blade against his, pushing him away. Turning with a grin and an eye roll, she walked out of the training circle, resting her dulled sword against a tree before grabbing her canteen and taking a long, deep pull of the cold water. She brushed her heavy, damp braid out of her face and off the back of her neck—it was a rainy morning, a fall storm having moved in from the coast in the early hours before sunrise.

  She’d bonded with Drystan the night before, just before that same storm rolled in. And just as she’d expected, it had been the golden threads reaching out to him, weaving the bridge between their souls. This new bond felt like warm, fresh-tilled earth and sharpened steel, and while he may be the youngest of her Armature, he carried himself with an ageless maturity that Mariah had never known she needed.

  When she’d sat with him last night at her dining table and explained to him that she knew of how intense the bonding could be, for both of them, she’d also made it clear there was a physical boundary she wouldn’t cross with him. She’d further assured him that none of this had anything to do with him, and everything to do with her.

  And, incredibly, he’d complied without so much as a question.

  Once the bonding was complete, and they’d sat, bared and bleeding before their Goddess, their shared breath coming out in pants, he’d gently pulled her hand from his chest, placed it by her side, and pulled her to her feet, dressing them both in robes they’d laid out prior. He then proceeded to clean first the wound on her palm, and then the wound on his chest, all the while making comfortable conversation with her as they both settled back down to the earth.

  His incredible self-control throughout the entire process had her watching him closely, his responses to her and to the bonding so very different from that of Sebastian and Quentin. She wondered if perhaps there were more to his quiet layers, if perhaps his true preferences lay with someone who looked very different from her. Not that it bothered her, of course—she needed her Armature to be loyal to her, to be willing to lay down their own lives to save hers.

 

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