by Imogen Sera
She stood again, after a minute, and slipped the treasures she’d found into her pocket. She took a cursory glance around the room before moving on to the next and thought about what a strange, sad place this palace really was. All of these empty rooms, many with still rumpled bed linens, just shut off from use by people who would rather pretend that the palace hadn’t been home to tragedy.
She moved to the next room and took a quick look around, finding a small silver wedding band. She held it in her palm, felt the weight of it and how it became warm from her heat after a moment. She didn’t like it, she decided suddenly, didn’t want it, but here it was, and putting it back and forgetting about it felt… wrong. So she pocketed it, too, and returned to her room.
When her finds were safely stored in her cabinet, she crossed to her bathroom to wash the dust off of her hands. She found herself examining her hair in the mirror—long and dark and straight, the ends curling slightly where Tarquin had touched them. She dried her hands as she watched herself, trying to ignore how obviously swollen her lips were, and then she fetched her scissors and returned to her spot in front of the mirror.
A few minutes later she liked what she saw, if only because she really hated to please anyone. Her hair came just to her chin, now, with a thick fringe across her forehead. It was sloppily done in her haste, clearly something she’d done herself, and she pursed her lips at herself as she decided to venture to the Queen’s rooms and ask for help.
Tarquin stalked along the corridor away from Mira, already hating himself. He didn’t know why he couldn’t keep away, why he couldn’t keep his thoughts from her. Obnoxious, strange, aloof Mira.
Helias was missing. He had been for a month, so Tarquin spent his days with Ingrid, providing her with companionship and protection. They resided in a court full of faces, and it was impossible to know which ones could be trusted, so he stayed alone, save for the Queen. She had needed the company, and he was glad that she’d invited her friends after what had happened at Dragongrove and now with Helias’ disappearance.
He hadn’t expected Mira when he’d responded to his brother’s letters and left his own research abruptly. When the illness had struck, they’d been banished from Arnes and flung to the corners of the world. His father demanded answers and wouldn’t allow any of his sons back until he had an answer for his grief. Tarquin was cast from the only home he’d ever known just days after losing his mate.
Aurelia.
He missed her now as much as he ever had. Missing her had turned into an ache deep in his soul as if a part of it had been carved out and taken from him. Missing indeed. He’d been able to distract himself well enough while he roamed mortal lands, with liquor and anger and women, but being back here, back in the room he’d shared with her, brought all of it back as it had been right when she’d died, right when his soul had been split in two and half had been taken from him.
He didn’t know why Mira seemed to affect him the way she did. She didn’t remind him of Aurelia; they were as different as two people could be. When he’d first seen her, he’d been descending to land at Dragongrove, and she’d stood gaping at him in the rain, not seeming to notice the water dripping down her forehead into her eyes, and he hadn’t been able to help himself but to land in front of her, shift, and sniff her. She’d smelled like he’d thought she would, when he’d first spotted her: smoke and salt and something wild, all hiding underneath the earthy scent of rain.
She clearly wanted him right away. He could see it in the way she gazed at him, smell it when he passed too close to her. He’d wanted her, too, but the guilt ate at him each time he had that thought, and then he’d turn his anger in on himself, hating his weakness and missing his mate.
When she’d arrived at the palace she’d been so like that day he’d first seen her, and he couldn’t help himself as he pulled her in a room and unleashed everything he’d thought about her since he’d met her. She’d responded immediately, pressing against him, asking for more, but he wasn’t in a position to give it and not regret it, so he’d turned and left without a backward glance. She kept wanting more each time he sniffed her out and made her need him, but he’d never pushed past it, and he was afraid of what that would mean. Fucking random women who he would never see again was one thing; fucking pretty Mira who laughed at him often and watched him all the time was something entirely different.
He found the council chambers, where he’d been summoned before he’d searched her out, and Ingrid greeted him with an exhausted smile. They had new information on the king’s whereabouts as a result of the Queen’s new… gifts, and the entire council as well as half the contingent of guards was there in secret, still unable to know which courtiers were trustworthy, working on what they had.
Ingrid rose from her seat and hugged him. It was a strange move for her, something she’d never done before, but when her smile turned into a grin and the fire behind her eyes had been re-lit, he understood the reason for it.
“We know where he is,” she said. “We leave in an hour.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Elsie, one of Ingrid’s ladies who was particularly skilled with styling hair, had volunteered her services to even out the cut that Mira had given herself. Mira was glad she’d taken her up on it as she turned from side to side examining her new style.
She’d returned to her bed chambers after thanking Elsie profusely, uncomfortable to remain in the claustrophobic atmosphere of the Queen’s parlor. She stood on her balcony, looking out over the gardens and the lake, enjoying the way the wind caressed her neck without her long hair in the way. A soft knock came on her bedroom door, and a moment later it opened to reveal Tarquin. She was surprised to see him again so quickly after last time, and surprised that he’d opened the door without waiting for her to answer. He always waited for her to answer when she was in her room.
She watched him as his gaze swept over her room, and then focused on her open balcony door, and then beyond that to her face. She wondered what he might say about her hair, then decided she didn’t care. When he approached her, though, he only took her face in his hands and looked at her, his face drawn tight with solemnity and… something else that she didn’t recognize, that she hadn’t seen before.
“I’m leaving,” he murmured quietly while she was still confused about the gentle touch and the lack of heat in his eyes.
“Oh,” was her only response.
“I’ll be back,” he said quietly, “but I don’t know how long it will take. A few days, a week maybe.”
She just nodded at him with wide eyes, wondering at this strange farewell, and the strange way he seemed to want to touch her without devouring her.
He pulled her against him then in an embrace that surprised her so much that she wasn’t sure if the air was knocked from her lungs in shock or from his hard arms holding her so tightly. His hands didn’t roam, though, and instead of his lips leaving hot trails on her neck they just pressed into her hair, murmuring that he liked it short, too.
“Goodbye, Mira,” he said as he released her, and put her hands on her shoulders. “I’ll miss you,” he added, oddly.
She blinked after him as he turned to leave, watching him pass through her door and look back at her, just for a moment. She watched her door for a long time afterward, still wondering at his strange affection, still feeling the warmth from his palms on her cheeks.
Three days passed. Three days with the queen gone, with the entire court abuzz with gossip, without any stolen kisses or touches from the man that Mira was trying to convince herself she didn’t miss. He hadn’t told her where he was going, but it had seemed obvious to everyone that they were off to rescue the king from wherever he’d been. Upstairs in the palace lay a score of slumbering dragons, that had been magically put to sleep when the king had gone missing, and on the second day, when they began to awake, Mira tried to convince herself that the pleasure she felt was because it meant that the king had been rescued; surely, that he was alright, and not that a certain dark-eyed
man would be back soon for her to kiss and tell that she’d missed him, too.
Mira found herself spending time in the Queen’s parlor, if only to hear what they might know. Her ladies were more subdued than usual, but Lily chattered on just as much as she ever had, speculating and complaining that people really shouldn’t be speculating, and then speculating some more. John, Lily’s husband, had raised his eyebrows at that, but Lily had just elbowed him good-naturedly and continued inventing details about the whereabouts of the Queen. Mira knew that she feared for her best friend, the nervous undercurrent running through her every word giving her away. Lily was well-intentioned, but normally too much for Mira; she appreciated the company, though, if only for the fact that it made time seem to pass more quickly.
Her days were strange without being split in two; in the morning when she’d wait for Tarquin to find her and claim her, and in the evening when he already had and she could hardly wait for the next day. She wished that it didn’t affect her so much, wished that she’d approached the encounters with the same carefree manner that she intended to portray about them, but he’d somehow slunk into her mind during the days and into her dreams at night. By the third day, she missed him— didn’t just miss being kissed but actually missed his presence, missed the quick whispered words he’d tell her, even missed the way he glared at her whenever he spotted her from across a room. It didn’t make sense, her missing him, but she did.
In the morning of the fourth day, as she walked with Lily and John through the front hall, returning to the Queen’s parlor for their customary after-breakfast game of cards, the many courtiers seemed unusually hushed. Mira found herself examining the crowd, wondering at the heat flooding her body and the prickling on the back of her neck.
She turned, wildly, and there by the door she met a dark, dark gaze.
CHAPTER SIX
Tarquin was injured, that much was obvious. He was shirtless, and although it looked like it had been hastily mopped up, his back had been shredded open. Mira’s hands came up to her mouth as she studied him from across the room, and as if sensing her gaze, he found her face and glared at her.
He was ushered away— up to the infirmary, she assumed. Only then did Mira notice Helias— the king, she supposed, although she’d never known him as that— following close behind. So he had survived. Ingrid was under his arm, clinging to his side, and Mira felt a small rush of relief for her not-quite-friend. She looked so very tiny there, not the formidable woman who’d managed to put everything in order since Mira had arrived.
Mira started behind them, curiously, until Tarquin looked over his shoulder at her and seethed at her. So she stopped, ignoring the hall full of urgently gossiping courtiers, and turned back to her room.
She bolted the door behind her. She’d been relieved, so relieved, to see him. He was alive, and although his injury looked painful, it hadn’t been so bad that he couldn’t walk. She hadn’t known she’d been worried about him until the moment she saw him again, but all at once she understood the odd dread that had settled over her since he’d left.
She threw open the doors to her terrace; the stale inside air was threatening to suffocate her. She sat in her little chair there, clenched her fists and stared out over the vast flat land before her. The look he’d thrown her had hurt her. That bothered her more than she wanted to admit, because— no. He was mated. Just because his mate was dead didn’t make him available. Just because his mate had rotted to bones when Mira had still been a child didn’t mean that he was hers for the taking.
She spent a few more minutes— sitting, thinking, annoyed at herself— and when she could take it no longer, she rose from her seat and stalked out of her chambers, headed for a wing of the palace that she’d yet to explore.
She passed the afternoon there and managed to find a black pair of trousers that fit her perfectly. They were clearly for a man— or a boy, she supposed, given that she was a tall woman and barely came up to any of the shifter’s chins— but they were cut nicely and fit over her slim hips easily. She left them on, under her gown, as she continued her search. She found a golden ring with a pearl in the center in the next room, and although she didn’t love it, it fit well on her index finger so she left it on as well.
The rooms darkened as the sun slid below the horizon, so she stopped in her room to wash the dust from herself. She stashed the ring in her cabinet but left the trousers on under her gown. They were unnoticeable under her ridiculous skirt, and they felt just right. She promised herself she’d find a blouse to match as soon as possible and be done with dresses forever.
She descended the endless stairs, breathless as always by the time she reached the bottom, and when she strode into the dining hall her eyes were wide, peeled for a glimpse of him. He was nowhere to be seen, but neither were the king and queen, so she supposed they were all together, discussing the considerable events of the day. She ate quietly, quickly, not wanting to acknowledge to herself that the only reason she hadn’t skipped dinner had been for the chance of seeing him.
After the sun had set, her least favorite time of day began. The palace was too dark to explore; torches and candles were fine for general living but couldn’t light a room effectively if one were searching nooks and crannies for lost treasures. Sometimes, she tried to read, although she was still learning most of her letters and became frustrated easily. Sometimes she wandered outside, bundled against the cold night air, and followed one of the many paths through the manicured grounds. She did none of that after dinner, though, instead returning to her room and feeling sorry for herself.
She decided on a bath, and as she stretched out in the magically warmed water, she refused to let him occupy her thoughts like this. He couldn’t kiss her frantically, tell her goodbye like he would miss her, stroke her cheek, and then come home and hate her. She scrubbed herself thoroughly, washed her short hair and face, and drained the tub. She pulled on her trousers and a new gown on top of them, ready to face him.
It was late; most of the torches along the wall had been put out, save for a few to light a path along the corridor. She knew the way to his room by heart— she’d never been inside, but she’d watched him angrily disappear into it more times than she could count.
She knocked on his door, hoping she wasn’t waking him, and then hoping she was. Her thoughts wouldn’t quiet, so why should he be entitled to rest?
He opened it quickly, all at once, shirtless and dazzling and already glaring down at her as if he knew it was she who had knocked. She stared up defiantly at him, and then he took her by the elbow, more gently than she thought he would, and hauled her inside, looking down the empty hallway suspiciously.
“No one saw you?” he asked.
She shrugged and pulled her arm from his grip. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”
He rolled his eyes and stalked across his bedroom, then seated himself at his desk, ignoring her.
She took the opportunity to look around his room. It was dark— all dark wood, heavy furniture, and black curtains pulled tight across his window. He had a massive bookcase, completely covered in books, and a small green couch positioned in front of the fireplace. His fireplace was unlit; above it hung a large portrait. It could be no one but his mate. She was as lovely as the sun. Silver barrettes fashioned like leaves held back her golden tumbling waves of hair, and her small nose was centered under her large, clear blue eyes that seemed to watch Mira back.
She finally managed to look away, finally managed to stop thinking about her own long nose, her short black hair, her muddied brown eyes. She turned to find Tarquin right behind her, seeming to have as much trouble tearing his eyes from the portrait as Mira had. He finally did, though, and looked down at her, and then pulled her in his arms.
CHAPTER SEVEN
She was breathless, heated, on fire, at home. Her hand was on the back of his neck, pulling him to her, the other tangled in his hair, keeping him from being too close. His hands were… everywhere. Run
ning across her back, down her sides, caressing the exposed skin under her neck, tracing her collarbones.
“Mira,” he murmured against her lips, then trailed his mouth down. She tilted her head back as he kissed her chin, along the line of her jaw, the hollow under her ear, and then down to her neck. He stayed there, kissing and licking and biting gently, and all she could do was tangle her hands in his hair. Her nipples were hard peaks under her gown; her breath was coming in short bursts.
When he tugged her gown down, off of her shoulders, and covered her nipple with his mouth, she could see ahead to where this led. She wondered briefly if he knew that she was a virgin— if it had been obvious to him that she’d had no experience kissing— until he’d come along and kissed her like he was mad for her, kissed her like she was something to be ashamed of. She didn’t like to admit her inexperience, didn’t like anyone to think she was vulnerable in that way; she hadn’t ever wanted to be vulnerable with someone in that way.
She stood in the wide neckline of her dress, her sleeves dangling around her waist, exposed from her ribcage up. She tried to shimmy it down further, down off of her, and he paused his torturing, teasing, tasting of her breasts to help her. He laughed when he saw her pants— an actual laugh— and the way it transformed his face into something gentler, something lovely, made her want to make him laugh always.
