The Night Prince (The Wolf King, #2)(46)

“Who says I’m not manipulating you?” His lips glisten in the firelight.

I tilt my head back as he feasts on me as if I’m his favorite meal. He sucks and strokes and laps as if he’s a rabid beast, and provokes sounds from me that I’ve never made before. I clamp my thighs around his head, and ride his face, rocking my hips until I’m nothing but liquid heat and the wind that howls through the mountains.

Somewhere, within the wild valleys and hurtling brooks that pass beneath me, I see his point. I would do anything he asked of me right now. If belonging to him means more of this, then I could give him everything I am.

Then all thoughts evade me and I’m only this feeling, this pleasure, as release crashes through me and I sink into never-ending bliss. I barely hear the voice somewhere deep within me, dark and primal and slightly annoyed.

Feral eyes. Amber.

A low growl.

You belong to no one.

***

I blink. I’m in my father’s palace, in the ballroom. I sit at one of the many tables that are dotted around the dancefloor, and I’m concealed behind one of the stone columns that support the domed ceiling. People dance in their finery on the checkered tiles, and the crescent moon shines through the sun-shaped window above my father’s throne. My brother Philip is by one of the tall arched windows, surrounded by adoring men and women alike. He throws back his head and laughs. His wine sloshes out of his cup.

Unease winds around my bones like a serpent. The notes of the string quartet are slightly off. The movement of the crowd is disjointed. The scent of liquor and sweat hangs heavy in the air. It’s suffocating.

A man sits beside me. He leans closer. Too close. He is packed with muscle, with black hair shaved close to his head. He’s drunk. Too drunk. His sour breath assaults my cheek, and as he slurs on about the glory he intends to bring to the kingdom, he puts his hand on my thigh. I stiffen. I know his history. I know the last time he visited the palace, one of my ladies-in-waiting was seen crying the next morning.

Touching me, on another night, would warrant his execution. Either drink, or the fact we are shrouded in shadow, has made him bold. My father wants me to talk to him, appease him. So, even though my skin crawls, I relax my posture, lean in for the jug, and refill his goblet with wine.

“You’re being too forward, Alexander.” My words are bold, but I force a coy smile onto my lips.

“I think you like it, love,” he slurs in his Borderlands accent. “You need someone forward. A bit wild. Not like these stiff southern bastards in their silk and finery.”

I nod at his black coat, embroidered with anchors and flowers. “You say that, yet your coat is one of the finest I’ve seen.”

“It would look even better on the floor of your bedchambers, with the rest of your clothes piled beside it.”

“Only my husband is supposed to speak to me that way.”

“Play your cards right, and that could be me.”

“My father would never agree to that.” I pretend to be sad about the fact. “He will make me marry a lord, or a prince. Someone to strengthen the kingdom.”

He slurps his drink, and brings his lips to my ear. “Fuck your father.” My heartbeat quickens. “Does that make you nervous, love? Fuck, you smell good.”

I force myself not to recoil, though I inch away slightly. “You don’t like my father?”

“Who does? The miserable cunt.” He takes another sip, and spills a little wine on the table. “You should do what I say, not him. After I’ve taken the Borderlands from my twat of a brother, I’ll turn the Borderlands army to the south, put your father’s head on a spike, and take you for myself. How does that sound?”

Like you’ve just signed your death warrant, Alexander.

I force myself to smile. “An appealing plan indeed.”

He leans closer, and something inside me rattles against its confines. My fingers hurt, and I fear claws will erupt so I can claw out his eyes. He opens his mouth and his eyes gleam with hunger. I breathe in sharply. A blade protrudes from his throat. It’s pulled back, and he slumps forward onto the table. The jug of wine tips over and spills onto the floor.

Blake stands behind him, and the muscles in his forearm flex as he sheaths the dagger. The moonlight illuminates the gleam in his eye, and the dimple that presses into his cheek. His dark hair is mussed, and his black shirt is baggy. The buttons are only done up to halfway—like he’s been lounging on his bed.

This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening. This didn’t happen.

The music stops. The people dissolve into shadow. A cloud passes over the crescent moon that shines on the throne.

My fear and unease dissolve. This is not real. I’m not a fourteen-year-old-girl, being groomed by a man almost twice her age. This is a dream. A memory. Nothing more.

My lips tighten. It’s not something Blake should be privy to.

I straighten in my seat.

“Hello, little rabbit.” Blake’s lips curve into a wicked smile. “Have you been keeping secrets?”





Chapter Twenty-One





“I made friends with a man in the Southlands, once.” Blake repeats the story I once told him. He pushes Alexander and his chair onto the floor. He turns and leans against the table beside me, his thigh close to my clasped hands. “My father thought he was plotting against him and I was told to dance with him, sit with him, fill up his cup. He was a devious, cruel man. . .” A slow smile spreads across Blake’s face. “No wonder you were so alarmed at the news that Alexander wasn’t dead.”