by K.N. Lee
While she and Luca’Rosi spent the day touring the palace grounds, lounging by the crystalline pool of water in the front gardens, and playing board games, she almost felt like a normal young lady.
Almost free.
The men in attendance stood until she and the other ladies were seated. Her nerves were on edge, and the pearl necklace at her throat became too tight. She tugged at it as she looked from side to side at the new faces.
Humans—she was surrounded by them—dozens. They all wore fancy gowns, jewels, and an air of aristocracy. She knew their sort, but, as Tilton introduced them to her, she realized that most were of royal blood.
Princesses, Dowager Queens, lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses. She could barely keep up with all of the titles and appropriate ways to address them. She’d keep quiet. That’s how she’d survive this night amongst the elite of the Lothlorien Court.
“I trust you had a good day, my lady,” King Tilton said as their wine glasses were poured.
She nodded, and took a sip. “I found some interesting diversions. And you, your majesty?”
“Indeed. I’ve planned my trek to Estilan, where I am to meet with King Rickard.”
“I do hope you show him what a good man you are,” she said, hoping she could use some of those subtle tactics for persuasion Rowen had taught her. The truth was, she wasn’t sure if he was a good man or not. He could strangle kittens before bed for all she knew, but something told her that was a ridiculous notion and that there was no facade when Tilton was concerned.
Something about her statement made him smile. He nodded, and drank from his wine. “I will do my best to honor your wish, my lady.”
She smiled in return.
“It is not my wish to see blood shed. Quite the contrary,” he told her. “When my old friend, Sir Warwick Ludlow presented the news of attacks to the south, I was stunned. I didn’t want to believe it. We simply want our lands to be safe from any threat.”
“I can understand that perfectly well, dear king. You will see that the Withraen’s only want the same.”
“I do hope that is true,” he said, and his attention was turned away by the stunning young woman to his right.
A Duchess of Armonday. Young—but as Ophelia came to learn—wed to the Duke at her right.
The first course was served and Kelton turned to her, his usual smirk on his face.
“Getting on well with my brother, my lady? You two seem quite friendly with one another.”
Nodding, she avoided looking at him. She drank her wine, downing it despite the strong, pungent flavor.
“What’s this? Not speaking to me after all the generosity I’ve bestowed upon you?”
“Oh, I quite thankful.”
“You look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you,” she said, shortly.
“I hope you don’t mind if I stay in Lothlorien Palace for awhile,” he said. “As my brother is called to battle, I will remain here to look after you. Shelton is too busy with his own affairs, and it does get a bit boring being in my large palace with only daunting courtiers and courtesans.”
“Don’t you have a kingdom of your own to look after? Who will look after it in your stead?”
He shrugged. “My kingdom is in no trouble of invasion. You see, Sangusaria is built into a group of mountains far from other kingdoms. Our export is only brought by ship or boat, and it is virtually impossible for an army to attack us from the sea.”
“Well,” she said. “I do hope my brother in law finds a cure for the curse that afflicts the Dragons, for that would be a grand sight to see. Dragons breathing Dragon’s Fire on your impenetrable city.”
His grin faded, replacing it with a grimace. “Too bad there is no cure. My brother and the Wizard’s of Myrity will be sure to wipe the Dragon armies out. One-by-one. Your brother in law, too.”
They exchanged heated glares and when he began to smirk, she shot to her feet.
Without asking permission to leave the table, Ophelia stormed away from the dining hall, ignoring the hushed whispers that followed behind her. Heat radiated through her cheeks.
“Insufferable bastard,” she growled as she weaved her way through the palace, not paying attention to where she was going or who watched her in her fury.
With no one to guide her, Ophelia found herself lost in the many halls of the palace. She stopped and looked around, her rage slowly fading.
It was a maze to her, one she couldn’t figure out.
Her scream was cut off as someone grabbed her from behind and snapped their hand over her mouth. She elbowed whoever assaulted her in the gut and spun on him. As he stumbled backward, she snatched a stolen dinner knife from a makeshift sheath wrapped around her ankle.
Kelton.
Her glare cut into him as she held the knife out in his direction. He held his stomach, stunned as his crystalline blue-eyed gaze lifted to hers. Then, he did what she hated most.
He laughed at her.
That only made her seethe with anger.
“Dear gods,” he snickered. “You’re a regular warrior. With a dinner knife in one hand, and your elegant skirts in the other.”
“Come one step closer and I will show you just how much of a warrior I truly am.”
He lifted a brow and stood tall, pensive.
“My, my. You certainly know how to get ones attention. I remember the day I first saw you. I just knew you’d be a boring aristocrat who would snivel and weep every leg of the journey.”
She tilted her head. “If you don’t turn around and leave me, you will be the one weeping.”
He nodded, and scratched the back of his neck, his gaze tracing every inch of her from head to toe and back. Still, he made no indication that he would heed her warning and leave.
She hated how he made her so self-conscious. Now, she worried about how she looked, or what he thought of her. Why should she care? She despised him.
Her heart thumped like a drum, and her hand began to shake. She swallowed, hating to admit that the thought of actually stabbing him made her stomach churn. She’d never hurt anyone before. The training her husband had given her had all been a game until now.
Kelton must have read her thoughts, or noticed the subtle shaking of her wrist, or heard the pounding within her chest, for before she could blink, he disarmed her.
She yelped as he twisted her arm behind her back, spun her around, and pushed her into the nearest wall.
The cold stone against her cheek was sobering, as was his body pressed against hers. The heat of his breath on the back of her neck was a stark contrast to the coolness of the wall, and she found herself holding her breath.
He’d taken her knife as quickly and effortlessly as if she were a child with a stick in its hand. Dread filled her belly. Still, it didn’t weaken her resolve.
She stomped on his foot and though he grunted in pain, he didn’t release her. He was stronger, bigger, and had a grip on her that she couldn’t wrench out of.
“Go on,” he whispered. “Try to get free.”
She gritted her teeth and tried to push him off of her. Every effort was fruitless, and when he turned her to him, she met his gaze with an icy fury.
She slapped him and instead of inciting anger, he smiled.
“Good one,” he said. “Again.”
Confused, she stared at him, slack-jawed when he lifted his head to face her. “What is wrong with you? You act as if you like pain.”
He lowered his forehead to hers and spoke softly, his thumb gliding along her bottom lip.
“Not really,” he admitted. “I just like seeing the fire in your eyes. No woman I have ever met has shown such strength. And, no kiss tastes as sweet as yours.”
She licked her lips, painfully aware of his hard abdominals against her soft belly. He laced his fingers between hers and pinned them to her sides.
It was hard to speak, but she needed to say something, to distract herself from how dizzy she felt.
Her voice caugh
t in her throat when he smashed his full lips onto hers in a hot kiss that left her soul screaming. He withdrew and licked her throat.
“Let me escort you to my bed,” he whispered. “I will show you pleasure you could never imagine.”
She tensed. “You’re probably used to women falling at your feet.”
“Indeed. And, what an absolute bore that has become.”
“I’ll fall at your feet if that means you’ll leave me alone. For, I will not be visiting your bed, this night, or ever.”
He stiffened and pulled away. “I see,” he said.
Then, he released her. Clearly, she’d bruised his ego and embarrassed him by the reddening of his cheeks. For a moment she wanted to say more—but decided against it.
“I do believe I’ve had too much to drink this evening.”
She nodded, rubbing her arms. “As have I.”
He scratched his head and backed away.
“Apologies, my lady for my behavior. I’ve been less than a gentleman,” he said. “I bid you goodnight, and most ardently beg your forgiveness.”
She watched him walk away, still confused by all that had just happened. What left her in disbelief was that his apology was the most genuine he’d been.
She whispered after him, tracing her lips, still feeling the sting of his kiss. “Good night.”
Chapter 11
Now that Kelton had left her, she realized that she was still utterly lost. She walked the halls, confused by how similar everything looked.
There were beautiful works of art, and ancient tapestries that she was certain would cost a fortune if sold. Each hall was carpeted, with gold trimmed walls and high ceilings. Still, it all looked the same and frustrated, she finally found a palace guard.
“Could you direct me to the royal wing?”
The guard peered down at her with dark eyes. “Lost, little Dragon?”
The guard next to him snickered and Ophelia frowned at them. “Can you help me or not?”
He chuckled and nodded to the corridor ahead. “Right, miss, follow the framed portraits of the royal family until you reach the main staircase. Then, you’ll fly up to the forth floor with your wings. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you,” she said, through clenched teeth.
There were things she wanted to say to him, but chose not to. He wasn’t worth the effort.
Instead, tired and ready for bed, she followed his directions. As she headed up the stairs, she tensed at seeing King Tilton at the top, waiting for her.
Prepared for a scolding, she trudged up the steps at a leisurely pace. She wasn’t going to rush to have him yell at her. So, she prepared her thoughts and an excuse for her offensive behavior at dinner.
When she reached the top of the staircase, she lifted her chin and waited for him to speak.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, catching her off guard.
She stuttered, fidgeting with the pearl necklace around her neck, cheeks flushed. “Oh, well. I…um.”
“Let me walk you to your room. Without your lady’s maids, I would see you make it back safely.”
She lifted a brow. “Is the Lothlorien Palace dangerous, your majesty?”
He shrugged. “You’re a Dragon amongst humans. The palace is filled with members of my extended family, friends, and members of Lothlorien nobility. I cannot say if those in my court mean you any harm. But, I will assure you make it to the safety of your private quarters.”
Nodding, he took her by the hand and placed it onto his arm as they headed down the long hallway to the royal wings.
“May I ask why you left so abruptly?”
She bit the inside of her lip, thinking of an excuse. Then, with a sigh, she told the truth.
“King Kelton,” she admitted. “I’m afraid he got the best of me. He spoke about the war and what harm that would bring to my brother-in-law. I hope you can understand my fear for my sister. As of now, she and my mother are all that I have left in this world.”
“Of course,” he said. “Indeed, I do. I have three brothers and seven sisters spread across the whole of the Trinity Islands, and even as far as the Floran Realm. I’ve married my sisters to my enemies, and each day I worry about them. As king, every match I make is for the greater good of my kingdom. Still, I can’t predict if they will receive treatment worthy of their station, or if their husbands are valiant men.”
“You understand me, then. I am distraught over the helplessness I feel about my sister. Please, I mean no offense, but I am a hostage, and I can’t do anything to ensure she is safe back in Draconia.”
He looked down at her and paused. “You are a hostage, Lady Wickenham. But, I will never lay a finger or give an order to cause you harm. I swear it.”
She searched his eyes, barely breathing. For some reason, she found it within her heart to trust him. Utterly.
She nodded, forcing a small smile. “Thank you. I do appreciate your vow.”
They continued to her door, where two guards stood posted outside. They opened the double doorway, and inside, Luca’Rosi waited, face red with worry, wringing her hands. Mol and Prudence also awaited, and they all bowed before the king as he walked her inside.
An awkward silence passed between them for a moment as they stood, facing each other, unsure of how to end their short time together.
He bowed to her, and she dipped into a deep curtsy. When he stood, he looked down at her.
“I leave to face the Withraen Army in two days. I’d be ever so grateful to spend those two days with you, my lady. If you’ll have me.”
Her heart fluttered. Such an odd sensation, one she had never felt before. A genuine smile came to her lips and she nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “I would like that.”
He returned the smile and bid her and the other ladies goodnight.
Once he was gone, Ophelia turned to Luca and the others, beaming.
Something about the look on Luca’s face wiped that smile off her lips.
Luca’Rosi crossed the room and took her by the hands.
“What is it, Luca?”
“It’s your sister, the queen.”
Her cheeks paled. “What? Tell me.”
“They are saying she’s fallen ill.”
Ophelia’s knees buckled.
“That she might not make it.”
The world spun and a heavy sorrow filled her heart ad she fell to the floor. Rowen, her dear sweet sister, was dying, and here she was charmed by a king—intrigued by his brother—and forgetting her goal.
Luca’Rosi and Mol fanned her as Prudence rushed to get her some cold water.
She did not deserve happiness. Not when Rowen was in need. Not when the fate of Dragons was now in her hands.
Chapter 12
Within days of arrival, Warwick had the freedom to walk unchaperoned through the Withraen Palace. A satisfied grin rested on his lips.
If he’d known it would be so easy, he would have executed his plan sooner. But, of course, he needed the king to leave the realm. Orchestrating a war between the humans and the Dragons had been easy after the former King Thorne’s machinations.
The fact that the Trinity brothers and the King of Withrae both took the bait was proof enough that the world was ready to stop pretending it was enjoying a carefree peace.
Peace?
He snorted.
Peace was an illusion. It didn’t exist, and those who believed in it were just children—not yet privy to the grim reality of life.
Death was real. Chaos was quantifiable. It was marked by the number of corpses left behind, by the outcome. That—he could understand, and would take great pleasure making his mark on both concepts.
The sound of his heavy boots vibrated across the slick, granite floors as he strode through the royal halls. No guard flinched or moved to stop him. They averted their eyes, kept their whispers to themselves, and obeyed their new ruler’s decree.
Sir Warwick Ludlow was now Princess Noemie’s fiancé.
Quite a promotion. He was certain that when his mother and father brought him into the world, that they’d be raising a future king.
Princess Noemie was ready to comply with all of his demands. He could smell the fear dripping from her body the moment she rested her eyes on him. Though she tried to hide it, he knew it wouldn’t take much to show her the benefits of their friendship.
Her beauty was simply a bonus, one he might further explore later. Then again, it would be a shame to see such beauty squandered. Perhaps he would let her live after their wedding and the coronation.
He stalked the halls of the royal apartments and stopped before a closed double door.
He turned the knob and stepped inside.
The smell of smoke affronted him as he entered. He waved it away and approached the foot of the bed. Within it lay the half-blood, and his sister.
“Is it done?”
Priscilla uncrossed her legs and set her cigar down. She yawned and stretched, sitting up to wrap her arms around her legs. She looked exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes. She’d removed her mask, and wore little more than her underclothes.
“Not quite. She’s quite strong. I dare say she’s stronger than even I.”
His eye twitched. “With Elian Westin as a father, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Not to worry,” she said, smiling. “I’m wearing her down.”
His eyes roamed over the body of Queen Rowen, the half-blood. A sheen of sweat covered her face and her chest rose and fell with quick, labored breaths. He frowned as he drew closer.
She tossed her head from side to side, in a desperate fight to awaken, yet her arms were pinned to her sides. Vibrant blonde hair framed her small face.
Beautiful. No, that was an understatement, but she held the same features of her father, features he’d dreamed of seeing burned since he was a teen.
He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. She was as hot as a poker dipped in flame.
“Will she survive the spell?”
Priscilla shrugged. “Perhaps.” Her brows furrowed. “Why should you care?”
