White Horse Black Nights (The Godkissed Bride, #1)(75)

They can have him. Please, I want to scream. They can have it all.

Myst draws to a stop in the front courtyard. Basten hangs off to the side, keeping his distance. This is his home, and yet he looks uncomfortable here. With his bow and hunting boots, he’s a denizen of the forest, not the city streets. Yet he murmurs greetings to a few sentinels standing guard—friends of his, or at least associates.

Rian waits for an extra beat before descending the stairs. It feels calculated. Always calculated. When he steps into the sunlight, I draw myself up to my full height atop Myst, prepared to defy any attempt to intimidate me.

His eyes run from the raven on my shoulder to the moth perched on my toe, and I hold in a breath, ready for this confrontation—

But he turns to Basten instead, ignoring me. “Wolf. Am I fucking glad to see you.” He slings one arm around Basten’s shoulder, pounding on his back in greeting, and then mutters, “Tamarac.”

“Tamarac,” Basten repeats, bowing his head.

I have no idea what the Ancient Tongue word means, but it clearly holds some deep significance between them. I lick my lips, suddenly nervous that I’ve gotten everything wrong. I assumed Basten’s loyalty was a fool’s errand. I didn’t think any master respected a mere servant.

Huh.

The bond I see between the two of them—it’s deeper than I thought. And with their dark hair and hungry eyes, Rian and Basten don’t look altogether dissimilar. Their features don’t match—Rian is far too lithe, and Basten is much too heavyset to share blood—but they have something alike I can’t quite put a name to. Then it hits me: they’re like gemstones cut from the same quarry, only with his wild mane of hair and dirt-streaked face, Basten is a rough-cut stone, raw and flawed and unrefined. Rian is as cut and polished as the gems glistening on his family’s jewelry.

When Rian finally addresses me, I’m so disoriented that my head is spinning.

“Lady Sabine. Welcome to Duren. To you and your . . . friends.” He acknowledges the birds and insects in a playful tone that I’m not sure is derisory. “I see the rumors of your godkiss were not exaggerated.”

Scrambling to regain my composure, I keep my head high, though my pulse is pounding. “They were not, Lord Rian. And I suppose I’ll discover the rumors of your lack of a godkiss were also not exaggerated?”

Though I mean it as an insult, he barks a laugh and claps his hands as though I’ve delighted him.

“May I help you down?”

I hesitate at his outstretched hand. It doesn’t feel right. Basten has always been the one to help me dismount. My body is used to surrendering to his rough and steady grip as he lifts me effortlessly to the ground. For a second, my heart splits all over again, gushing and gushing from the fresh wound.

I briefly squeeze my eyes closed. I will not let them see me cry. They don’t deserve my tears.

I force a smile and say loudly, “It would be my pleasure to be handled by a gentleman after the past few weeks.”

A smile quirks Lord Rian’s lips as he glances over his shoulder at Basten. “Hear that, you beast? Of course, you did. Didn’t win any fans on the ride, did you?”

Basten merely scowls up at the sky, pretending he didn’t hear.

I take a breath before placing my hand in Lord Rian’s. His palm isn’t lined with dirt like Basten’s, but it is calloused. The goose nestled on Myst’s withers takes flight, as do the moths along my thigh that would be crushed when I dismount, but the rest of the animals remain. Rian’s strong fingers close over mine, and with controlled grace, he guides me—still bedecked in feathers and mothwings—down from the horse.

He motions to a servant at the bottom of the stairs holding a folded velvet drape. With a wry smile, he says, “I had intended to sweep in like a dashing hero and offer you a cloak to cover your body, but I see you’ve handled that yourself.” His dark eyes flash as he assesses each one of my winged friends. “You’ll soon learn that nothing travels faster than gossip in Duren. The people are already calling you the Winged Lady, and talking about how you used your godkiss to mock my rules of the ride.”

His candor is unnerving and, frankly, suspicious.

I stare him down as I challenge, “Such rules were made to be mocked.”

A secretive smile pulls at his lips. “You hate me, naturally. I expected no less. But you should know that the ride wasn’t about humiliating you, my lady. Immortal Solene professed the virtue of our natural states. Her own famous ride was meant to demonstrate the sacredness of coming into a marriage as we are, not hidden behind costuming. My wish was that you and I meet at our most basic level. Simply a man and a woman.”

Gods, this man is eloquent. He almost has me falling for his own bullshit.

“Hmm,” I purr evenly. “So then why aren’t you naked?”

His smile stretches wider, and I realize I’ve fallen into one of his traps. “So eager? Soon enough, my lady. And here I thought you were chaste.”

His eyes spark tauntingly.

“No . . . I didn’t mean . . . ” I garble.

He only grins wider.

Despite myself—despite the hell this man has just put me through—I almost appreciate his humor. Because the one goddamn thing I could use right now is someone else to laugh at the futility of my situation.