With a strangled yell of rage, Sergevni bolted upright in his bed. His heart pounded madly in his chest, his cock hard as granite. What was wrong with him? He was not some untested milksop — he was a trained soldier, a commander respected by thousands for his iron will and unflinching discipline.
Stripping back the thin coverlet from his lower body, Sergevni sprung from the bed. He needed to regain control of himself, to know himself as who he truly was. Not some lust-lorn fool but Prince Sergevni, the commander of the Karschan armies, the leader of the greatest military power in Westmere.
That night, Sergevni trained until his arms trembled and his legs shook. He practised the drills until he ached from it, until his breath became short and the sweat wreathed from his body in ribbons of steam in the icy starlight. It wasn’t until he was exhausted, shuddering and drenched in sweat that he returned inside his bedchamber, washed himself, stripped naked and fell into the sweet oblivion of sleep.
The next morning, he awoke feeling much better. His muscles were sore, but it was a pain he took pride and satisfaction in. The pain of progress and strength. It was a good pain, and it made him hungry and eager to work.
After a breakfast of porridge, bread, butter and eggs, Sergevni strode to his office, where he sent for tea. He penned letters to his naval commanders and shipyards to have a small fleet prepared. Then he ordered a trusted garrison of men briefed that they might be venturing from Karscha and heading north soon. Once he had arranged the preparations for his bride’s fleet, he moved on to the next order of business.
Calling for two pages, he sent them to fetch Adrienna.
“Your Imperial Highness…” one of them said, glancing nervously at the other. “She is having breakfast with the Marquess of Grigarski.”
Sergevni’s good mood soured. The Marquess of Grigarski was a known murderess, a woman who had taken three husbands, all found dead in the marital bed within several years of marriage. She was renowned for her botanical knowledge — and her vicious ambition. All the more reason for doing what he was about to do.
“Tell her it is a matter of urgency. I require her in my bedchamber. Now.”
The pages did not dare gainsay him, and soon they were scuttling off down the chandeliered corridors. Sergevni sighed grimly and left his study. Back in his bedchamber, he threw open the windows and prepared himself for sparring, stripping until he wore nothing but leggings and boots.
Bandaging his hands, he picked each of the wooden weapons in turn, gauging their weights. They were all heavy, but one of them was a whalebone blade, designed for light swordplay — it would suit Adrienna perfectly.
When the pages ushered her into his room, Sergevni braced himself for her inevitable wrath. She was clad in blue, this time: a deep azure gown, embroidered gold and silver along the stiff, narrow bust. Her skirts moved gracefully about her, the heavy fabric draping elegantly around her hips and legs. Star-adorned pins held her hair secured away from her face, which was deliciously unpainted. The azure of her dress brought out the azure of her eyes in a startlingly beautiful way — but Sergevni had no time to admire the colour.
“May I spend a day in this palace without being dragged into your bedchamber?” she asked before he could speak.
Her tone was withering, her pretty lips pursed in exasperation. She spotted him by the door and stopped short. Her eyes swept over him: his bare chest, his leggings and boots, his bandaged arms.
She continued furiously, “And will you and I ever spend a moment alone without one of us being devoid of clothing?”
He raised an eyebrow. Her implication was clear — nevertheless, he would ignore it.
“I have called you here with good reason.”
“You interrupted a perfectly lovely breakfast with my new friend Marievna.”
“Your new friend Marievna has a habit of mixing tea and poison,” Sergevni pointed out. “In the future, you ought to be more wary of her.”
“Why would Marievna poison me? She stands to gain more from me being alive,” she gave him an exasperated look, then steeled herself with a long breath. “Sergevni, if you wish me to rule in your stead, you need to let me do what I must.”
She was right. She had in her an innate affinity for court, an uncanny ability to fathom and manoeuvre it. But as much as he trusted her, his distrust in his father’s courtiers ran deep and dark. If he would not be around to protect her, then he would at least arm her with the ability to protect herself.
“I will. But this is something I must do. Take this.”
He handed her the whalebone sword. She took it, wrapping her fingers around the smooth hilt. Though it was the lighter of the swords, her arms still dropped when she held it up. She glanced from the blade to Sergevni.
“A sword?”
“This is a training sword. Come.”
He led her outside. The sky was clear and the sun high, filling the small courtyard with crystalline light. Sergevni pointed towards the other side of the court: a tall, wooden post, scarred with dents and cracks, jutted from the ground. Around it, a sack was tied with ropes in the vague outline of a head and torso.
“This is a pell,” Sergevni said.
She raised an eyebrow and replied, “A training post. I know.”
“Have you used one before?”
She cast him a look of irritation.
“No. My father never sought to train me for combat. Perhaps he did not imagine that assassins would haunt every step I take in Karscha.”
“I want to train you for combat.”
Sergevni’s statement rendered the princess speechless for a moment. She glanced down at the sword in her hand then back up at Sergevni. The star-shaped diamonds in her hair glittered in the pale sunlight, her eyes bluer than the sky.
“Why would you want to train me for combat?”
“I won’t always be able to protect you, Adrienna. I want to be certain you can at least protect yourself.”
A curious smile lit her face. A smile that was both sweet and disdainful and sent a lancing sensation through Sergevni’s chest.
“Sergevni, let us settle this matter. You need not protect me. You need not worry about my safety or welfare.” She stepped towards him, holding out the whalebone sword between them. “We have already agreed to be allies, not lovers. You owe me a fleet, and nothing else.”
The sudden urge to stop her words with a kiss sent Sergevni jolting forward. She took a step back, instinctively holding the sword up, the blade crossing the space between them. Sergevni paused.
“Consider this part of our arrangement,” he said. “I will not put a defenceless queen on my throne.”
Before she could respond, he held up his own training sword. It was heavy, but he held it perfectly still in his grip, poised to strike.
“Block my attack.”
“You wish me to spar,” Adrienna glanced down, “in this gown?”
Sergevni’s eyes narrowed and he drawled, “I don’t wish you to spar naked.”
She smirked.
“No — you would be too distracted.”
He lunged and struck, hard and true and controlled. Her blade met his with a dull sound, her arms trembling from the impact. She took a step back, steadying herself.
“Block the next blow,” he instructed.
He struck again, sweeping downwards, and she blocked the blow once more. A hard exhale rushed from her lips when the clash of blades made her arms shudder.
“Again,” he said.
This time, he swept his blade sideways, aiming for the delicate arch of her waist. Her eyes widened and she scrambled back, but the edge of his blade came to rest against the embroidered fabric of her bodice.
“You’re hurt,” he declared, raising an eyebrow.
Pushing his blade aside, she swung her sword at him one-handed. He stopped it with a clean block, stepping closer to her. Now that it was too awkward for her to swing, he pressed his advantage, forcing her to retreat.
Her back hit the cold s
tone of a pillar and she gasped in surprise. She moved to raise the sword, but he took her wrist, pinning it back against the stone, forcing her to drop her weapon. It fell to the ground with a dull clatter.
“Now I have disarmed you.” He stepped closer, pressed the dull edge of his own blade lightly against her neck. “Now I have you trapped beneath my blade.” Her eyes glittered like jewels, her smile fearless — but her chest heaved with short, hard breaths. “Now you are at my mercy.”
She sighed languorously, arching her body against the stone pillar. She looked at him from beneath the dark fan of her eyelashes; her gaze defiant, almost amused.
“Is that not the way you like me best, Sergevni — at your mercy?”
An impulse hotter than bloodlust coursed through Sergevni, too powerful to be denied. Tossing aside his weapon without a care where it would land, his hands flew to his bride’s waist. Then he was hoisting her up against the stone column, crushing her lips beneath his.
There was no control to his kiss, only hunger. Her arms curled around his shoulders, her lips parted, soft as berries beneath his and sweeter still. The taste of her was intoxicating, heady as wine. Sergevni pressed her close, his hands moulding to the shape of her waist, his knee sliding between hers, pushing into the thick fabric of her skirts. Her tongue slid, warm and tentative, against his, sending flames of desire blazing through his chest.
He pressed his hips against her; he was so hard he could not bear it. He was consumed by the urge to toss her skirts aside and take her right there and then. Then her fingers were tangling in his hair and pulling, forcing him to drag his mouth from hers. He broke their kiss with a rasp of frustration.
“I told you it was you who wanted this, Sergevni,” she breathed triumphantly.
Sergevni stared at her, astounded by her arrogance. Her lips were wet and red from his kiss, her cheeks flushed as blossoming roses. She looked ready to be debauched — she looked delectable.
Lowering her back to the floor, he released her, stepping away. He was breathing hard, and his rigid manhood was insistently pushing against the soft fabric of his leggings. The momentary loss of his self-control shocked him — but more shocking still was the reckless yearning to do it again.
“You defended yourself from my sword better than you defended yourself from my kiss,” he pointed out.
He wanted her to feel as shocked and dismayed and desperate as he felt. But she seemed none of these things. On the contrary, she seemed more satisfied than he ever had seen her. Her chest heaved, the curve of her breasts swelling sensually against the stiff bust of her dress. Naked pleasure was in her blue eyes.
“I had no need to defend myself,” she said, straightening her skirts and brushing back a stray lock of hair. “I know victory when I see it.”
Her arrogance was unbearable.
“If you kiss all your attackers the way you kissed me,” he said, “then you shall never have any enemies.”
“With an ally such as yourself,” she retorted, "it would seem I shall never need an enemy to kiss.”
That word again, tossed at him with such contempt.
“Is it the Veritian way to let your allies seduce you so easily?” he asked coldly.
Now she straightened, her eyes glittering above her damask cheeks.
“Is is the Karschan way to steal what you want when it would be easier to ask?”
Picking up the whalebone sword she had dropped, she pointed the blade at Sergevni, folding her other arm behind her back like a duellist.
“You may train me, if you so wish. I’ll spar with you and learn to defend myself so you may feel comforted in your absences.”
She touched the tip of her blade to his neck.
“But next time you wish for a kiss, prince of Karscha, then you must ask me for one.”
Sergevni observed her closely. She was in earnest, and there was no judgement or mockery in her tone. But Sergevni wanted more than a kiss. He wanted every kiss; he wanted her gasping mouth yielding beneath his; he wanted her naked in his bed once more; he wanted her milky thighs parting for him.
“Then I shall,” he said, bowing courteously. “I shall ask you for a kiss every time I need to stop you from speaking.”
“Our arrangement shall be most satisfactory,” she smiled sweetly, curtseying low. “For I dearly love to speak.”
Dropping the blade of her sword downward, she handed it to him by the hilt. He took it, raising an eyebrow.
“Send for me tomorrow, my dear Sergevni,” she said, striding back towards the entrance to his chambers. “Today Count Drazhan has invited me to hunt, and then I dine with him at the winter palace of the Yaromir household.”
She paused in the archway of the open window, raising a finger to her lips thoughtfully.
“I do hope nothing dangerous happens to me,” she mused. “It would be quite distressing if Count Drazhan tried to strike me with a sword and then kiss me.”
And with a wicked little smile in Sergevni’s direction, she left.
Sergevni stood frozen in the pale daylight. He had not realised that he was still breathing hard. His chest heaved as though he had just been locked in fierce combat with a relentless opponent. For Adrienna was precisely that: she wielded her words like a sword and every strike was true and deadly.
Sergevni reluctantly resumed his training. Although he had once more scored a victory against her — for she had agreed to let him train her — he still had the feeling of having lost to her somehow. But then, she always made him feel this way. Even when he had kissed her, though it was him who had pressed her to the cold stone of the pillar and crushed her mouth with his kiss, in the end it was still him who was filled with need, and her with triumph.
He could not make a single move against his bride without she should gain some new power over him. There was no denying the hold she had over him any longer. Fighting the urge to kiss her and hold her was taking too much of his time and focus, and he was a busy man.
Sergevni glanced back at the doorway through which Adrienna had disappeared. He needed to build her an escort of soldiers, for the reckless princess would throw herself blithely into danger if he did not stop her.
Besides, Sergevni could not risk allowing Count Drazkan to strike Adrienna with a sword. Or kiss her.
9. Ruby
Adrienna remained in excellent spirits that day. The hunt with Count Drazhan was bracing, a pleasant taste of freedom amongst the wilderness that surrounded Sevalensk. The winter palace of the Yaromir was a splendid estate, and the Baron and Baroness of Yaromir were graceful hosts. The food was pleasant, and in the evening, singers regaled the guests with songs of lost maidens and ancient forest gods.
When she returned to Sevalensk late that evening, she called for a bath to be drawn. She lay in the scented water and was half-surprised when no page appeared at her door to summon her to Sergevni’s chamber. The prince of Karscha was making a habit of doing this, and Adrienna was glad to be finally left to her own devices.
After her bath, she sent away the maids that flitted like butterflies about her quarters. She combed her hair, pulled a silk nightgown over her fragrant body, and tiptoed around her bedchamber blowing out lamps and candles. Once she slid into her bed, she lay back into the pillows, sighing in contentment.
She was tired from the long day. Being around the courtiers was exhausting. She needed to maintain the facade she had first presented them with: the mysterious yet affable Veritian woman who would one day be their queen. And aside from holding up that delicate mask, she needed to listen carefully to any information they gave her. There was much to learn, for Adrienna knew that the surest way to survive amongst courtiers was to be armed with knowledge.
Already, news and whispers of scandals and secrets were reaching her ear. In her mind, she was building a spider’s web of knowledge. It was with that web that she would one day trap all the courtiers, keeping them firmly within her power. If she was to rule Karscha, ruling its courtiers would be paramou
nt. And Adrienna had not lost any time. She might be powerless to help Aster for now, but she would keep herself safe in Aster’s absence.
She awoke the next morning to a flurry of activity. Her ladies-in-waiting, a flock of beautiful young women eager to please, busied themselves about her chambers. Some prepared her clothes and jewellery for the day, some were setting a tray of tea and cake to bring to her. Adrienna emerged from sleep with a deep sigh. Each morning she was surprised anew to not find Aster, pale from sleep or flushed from her drills, standing by her bed.
Soon. She would get her captain back soon.
Adrienna took her breakfast, chatting amiably with the young women. They were pretty, frivolous girls, each selected from a noble family, each wishing to come to Sevalensk to find an advantageous match while they served her. Adrienna enjoyed their company well enough, their pleasant, mindless patter both comfortable and comforting.
After they had eaten and drank their cups of sweet black tea, Adrienna allowed herself to be washed, combed and laced into her clothes. Soon she stood in front of her gilded mirror, dressed in a heavy gown the colour of amethysts. An ornate sun was stitched in silver thread over the high collar, covering her throat. Her short hair was clasped beneath a band of silver encrusted with diamonds and sapphires, her lips painted the red of crushed roses.
Once she was ready, her ladies wrapped a heavy mink fur mantle around her shoulders and led her from her room. Adrienna had no visit planned for this day, but she followed the young women, laughing at their enthusiasm.
They led her through the sumptuous corridors and back to the entrance of the large court where she herself had arrived mere days ago. There, Karschan soldiers crowded, unloading horse-carts. Adrienna looked around, wondering why she had been brought to see the soldiers.
Then, a booming voice resounded, echoing through the courtyard.
“By the saints! The princess of Veritier looks like a queen now!”
Adrienna’s heart faltered and her throat suddenly constricted. Running down the stairs, she pushed past soldiers and horses, running until she landed against a huge body. Then Althius’s arms were wrapped around her, lifting her off her feet. The old warrior laughed warmly but hastened to set her back upon her feet.
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