Page 26 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Vesperian nods, his eyes lowering to her exposed collarbone. “Anything for you, my Queen.”

Myla suspects negotiations have ended when his hand brushes a trace of wine from her bottom lip with his thumb, which he proceeds to lick reverently. His gaze does not waver from hers. Instead, in spite of the silence, his unwillingness to avert his eyes feels like noise, sirens screaming in her head to move. Her legs twitch in an effort to walk away but the motion does not follow. At an almost inhuman rate, he stands, jerking her close to him, the hand not currently grasping a wineglass slips slowly down her back until it slides dangerously low, groping her from behind.

“My Lord.” Myla forces a giggle though a rage building in her lungs begs to scream profanities at him. “It is important I maintain my virtue until we are wed.”

He slowly digs his fingers into her flesh, silencing her protest with a kiss which nearly draws blood between his teeth. His breath is hot as he speaks in slow demands. “My Ruthless Queen has virtue?” His hand trails from her back to her front, teasing the ribbon at her neckline which holds the slip in place. “You told me yourself; you have thought of me in your bed. There is no place for thinking now, let us do.”

Vesperian drops the wineglass, and it shatters before the hearth. Myla feels the spray of wine on her feet and legs but has no time to assess the damage to her slip. Both of his hands now firmly grope her, pulling her against him. His teeth dig into her neck gently, nipping as though to coax her and his lips travel in icy kisses up her neck.

The very place Bryar kissed her two nights ago.

Sucking in a breath, Myla places both hands on his chest, urging herself to be steady. “I have imagined what we could be countless times.” Her response is breathless and she ignores the tingling sensation crawling up her thighs entirely against her will.

Another game the demon before her plays.

“But there is a tension here,” she whispers, allowing her lips to brush against his, hoping to tease him enough with words to satiate his desires. “I should like to let it grow so I may enjoy you to the fullest . . . as my husband.” The words taste rotten in her mouth, a betrayal to her very core, yet ones that seem effective as his hand retreats slightly, allowing her dress to remain in place.

“Darling.” His voice is like the edge of a sword, sharp and threatening, but there is a hint of coy appreciation there. “I have never purchased a horse without riding it first. A wife seems to be no different, by my calculations.”

Shock ripples through her body, threatening to spill out her fingertips, inciting a battle she is not ready for. Of all the times she has been treated as a man’s pawn for profit, Myla has never been compared in value to a horse.

Trial run or not, he needs me alive.

She calls his bluff. With a slow, calming breath, Myla presses her lips in slow kisses along his jaw. Finally meeting at his mouth in a tense battle, their lips move against each other’s. In a calculated risk, knowing he is a lover of danger and conflict, Myla grasps at his throat while the other clutches his shoulder. She presses her body flush against his while her lips murmur against his ear. “I am no horse, my lord,” she answers. His response is exhilarating. He tenses and his throat bobs—is that fear? She continues, urging every fiber of her to prove convincing. “I will have you know, I ride, Vesperian. I am not ridden. You shall wait to have me, and when you have me, you shall forget every other woman you have ever held. Do you understand me?”

His large hand, cold as iron closes around the wrist grappling at his throat and jerking himself free. A flash of anger is replaced with curiosity and eagerness. He licks his lips and takes a step back, smiling as though he has just won a battle, and she is his vanquished trophy.

“I understand you perfectly. Do not be fooled though, my Ruthless Queen. Two nights from now, I will not be the only one forgetting all others.”

Seconds later, before Myla can respond to his promise—or a threat, as it feels—Elsa returns. She brings Fern with her, carrying a steaming basin of water for a bath. Myla looks once more at Vesperian, allowing her eyes to travel up and down his body before she extends a hand for him to kiss.

“I look forward to your demonstration of many things,” she says, watching with implied pleasure as he kisses her hand not once, but twice. “Including the power of forgetting.”

The door closes behind him and his wolves, taking with them the air of confusion, a sensation of wanting and not wanting all at once. Myla ignores the prying eyes of her ladies, not wishing to expose a single detail should sharing her encounter cause her resolve to waver. That is a response she simply does not have time for. Feeling will have to wait until she has managed to somehow overthrow the monster himself.

Kill the devil. Care later.

MYLA EXITS HER room an hour later, bathed, dressed, and drunk. Elsa supplied another decanter full of a well-aged wine and together, the three girls drowned their worries in the red of their glasses.

Now, she appears, ready to navigate the day and all its complexities.

Bryar still stands at her door and everything inside her wishes to turn and speak with him, but fear for his life stops her. Their only interaction is the slight brush of fingertips as she passes through her door before moving ahead of him to fall in stride with Elsa.

“I need you to deliver a message to Alaric for me.” Myla slips her friend a small scroll, which is quickly concealed in her bodice. She then turns to Fern. “My green chemise, the one I wore on my wedding night with Caius. Have it washed and pressed and lay it out for me tonight.”

“Your Grace?” Fern asks, astonished, her expression mirrored on Elsa’s face and Myla can all but feel the jealousy boiling off Bryar. She stops in her tracks, turning so all three of her companions can see the severity of her features. There is no room for mistakes, now more than ever.

“I must have your trust in this,” she demands, briefly aware of dazed crimson soldiers approaching from the other side of the corridor. “Tonight, I will have Vesperian in my chamber—I will be safe,” she interjects before Bryar can protest. “And you,” Myla looks at him with a determination that could silence most any objection, “you will be by my door, ready to enter it should I cry out; do you understand me?”

His nostrils flare and a glint of something born of anger and pain settles into the souls of his eyes. “Yes, Your Grace.”

The bitterness in his response goes unnoticed by none.

There is no misinterpreting the chill forming between Myla and Bryar, causing Elsa to turn, facing away. Fern follows suit and Myla lowers her voice, allowing the Blood Stealer’s men to pass before speaking.

“Bryar,” she whispers, her hand brushing against his briefly. “Do not burn your life down for me. Not tonight.”

A slight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, followed by an exasperated sigh. “Perhaps tomorrow?”