A bit over the top, perhaps, but worth it for the near-snarl that ripped out of Luther’s mouth.
“If the happy reunion is over, Perthe has a job to return to,” he snapped.
I offered Perthe a gracious smile, then walked past him into the parlor. Behind me, I heard Luther’s footsteps follow, then a scuffle and a low exchange of words.
I turned to see two guards with their weapons crossed over Luther’s chest to block his entry.
“Get out of my way,” he gritted out.
“No one enters without Her Majesty’s consent.”
I couldn’t restrain my grin. It seemed they had learned their lesson from the last time he disciplined them.
Luther glared at them before turning his icy gaze on me. There was a tension in him that seemed coiled too tight, a bowstring stretched too thin. Even without magic or weapons at his hands, he looked more deadly than ever.
“Let him through,” I relented.
No sooner had the guards withdrawn their weapons than Luther had his hands on the back of their necks, shoving them out into the corridor and slamming the doors behind them.
“They’re following your orders. You could be a little less of an ass.”
He practically growled.
Sorae poked her head in to greet me, then took one look at Luther fuming and disappeared back to her perch.
“Traitor,” I shouted her direction. A pulse of amusement answered back over the bond.
I rolled my eyes and stalked across the parlor. I was almost to my bedroom when the heel of my shoe caught on the edge of a rug, and I went ungracefully flailing toward the ground.
Instantly, Luther’s arms were around me. He scooped me out of midair, and my brain swam with the intoxicating effects of sweet wine and hard muscles and large hands. The room spun around me as I somehow continued to move. I had only just processed that he was carrying me when I went flying again and my back hit the springy mattress of my bed. A few of the dainty chains on my dress snapped at the rough motion.
Luther stood between my legs where they hung off the edge and glared down at me.
“Foot,” he barked, holding out a hand.
My jaw hung open. “What the hell was that for?”
“It’s my duty to protect you. And that includes keeping you from breaking your neck stumbling around drunk on ridiculous shoes.”
“I’m not drunk,” I slurred back.
His eyes narrowed. “Foot,” he said again, the roughness of his tone stirring something low in my belly.
Jealousy and anger mixed with indignation, layered with a stubborn determination to win this strange battle we were fighting, shaken by alcohol-decimated inhibitions, and poured over a lust I still wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
It was a dangerous cocktail, and I was still in the mood to drink.
My foot slowly began to rise, dragging roughly up his leg. I smiled viciously as his posture drew tight and his fingers twitched. My toes skimmed along his thighs and paused at his waist, hovering just long enough to lure him to reach for me before jerking higher and continuing up his body. When I reached his chest, I flexed my foot, digging the sharp heel of my shoe into the space just over his heart.
Luther didn’t flinch. His hand closed around my ankle and yanked it even higher, holding my stare as he hooked it over his shoulder. He grabbed my waist and dragged my body towards him until the back of my thigh slapped against his hips. My lips popped open, and his eyes gleamed with challenge, daring me to object.
My mouth snapped closed. I was still riding a victorious high from my success at the dinner, and I’d be damned if I lost now. Especially to him.
He held my stare as his hands circled my thighs and deftly began to unwrap the straps that wound from my shoes up my leg. He could have snapped them off with one strong tug—instead, he took his time lazily sliding them away, then massaging my skin to soothe the marks they’d left behind.
My eyes fluttered as he put his Descended strength to good use on my tendons. The warm, firm pressure of his rolling fingers was divine on my aching calves. I had to grit my teeth to keep from moaning.
“I hope you and Iléana had a nice night,” I said frostily.
Luther watched me but didn’t respond.
I huffed. “You two certainly seemed in a rush to be alone. You didn’t even say goodbye.”
He kept his silent vigil, eyes pinning me in place as he worked his way over my ankle. He slid the shoe off my foot, letting it clatter to the ground, and pulled my foot to his chest.
“I think I see now why you two work so well together. She’s miserable to be around, and you love to be miserable. It’s a perfect match.”
His mouth thinned ever so slightly, and my grin spread wide with triumph. Diem one, Luther zero.
I cockily raised my chin. “She’ll make a lovely Queen Consort for you once I’m dea—ah!” A husky, mortifying sound slid from my lips as Luther’s thumb found just the right spot on my foot, sending a lightning bolt of pleasure up my spine. He circled it again, and my back arched against my will, hands fisting into the sheets.
Luther smiled darkly. Tie game.
He left my leg propped against him and held out his hand. “The other one.”
There was a dominance to his tone, something less than possessive but far more than protective. It thrummed with an unspoken dare—a goading for me to say no, to wave the white flag and pull away—but it also sang with the hint of forbidden promise. A glimpse of what he might offer, if I let myself submit.
I should have hated it. I was a Queen, after all.
But I didn’t.
I really, really didn’t.
“Don’t make me ask again,” he said in that same rumbling, commanding tone.
Though I threw him a scowl, I lifted my other leg and gingerly placed my heel in his hand. His eyes lit up—not with victory, but with excitement, like I’d just given him a gift.
His thumb stroked my ankle, tender and feather light. “Good girl,” he murmured.
My thighs clenched.
Diem one, Luther ten.
With both legs propped against him, there was no keeping the hem of my dress from sliding profanely high. I squirmed in an effort to push it down—even I wasn’t brave enough to be that on display—but Luther dutifully held my gaze, his eyes never leaving mine for a second.
He reached first for my dagger, his fingers plunging down my thigh. I sucked in a breath.
He stilled. “I can stop, if you’d like.”
My heart took its own drunken stumble at the way his voice had suddenly gone gentle, tinged with concern.
But I didn’t want his concern. Concern meant feelings. Feelings were real, and I didn’t—couldn’t—want real. This was just a game.
I rolled my shoulders back and straightened my leg, forcing his hands further. “Go right ahead,” I purred.
He flashed me a whisper of a smile as he adeptly unbuckled my thigh strap and slid the dagger free of its sheath. Still holding my stare, he twisted it again and again in his hand, then leaned forward to set it on my stomach, its point stretching to the soft curve of my breasts.
When I reached to grab it, Luther stopped me with a subtle shake of his head. I frowned at first, not understanding. The dagger was heavy—I’d left Brecke’s blade behind in favor of something bulkier, wanting to show off the threat rather than hide it—and still warm from its contact with my skin. The longer it lay there, the more it felt like a hand—Luther’s hand, pressing me to the mattress and holding me at his mercy.