Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

I inhale deeply. "Perhaps I like to give the prince some space. You can't miss someone who is always clinging to you."

Talan glances back with a mischievous smile, then raises his eyebrows when he sees Lumos. He rises from his chair, prowling closer. "Is my cousin boring you?"

I shrug. "We were just catching up, although he doesn't remember me."

Talan sits on the alcove bench next to me, leaning back against the pillows, a wine glass in his hand. He ignores Lumos, and the look he's giving me is positively smoldering. "Would you mind fucking off, cousin?" he says with an arrogance bordering on contempt, still holding my gaze.

"Aww," says Lumos, "was your lover ignoring you? Is the bloom off the rose already? Or did you choose her simply because she's the one woman in Corbinelle who doesn't give a fuck about the prince?"

Lumos is obviously drunk, I think, and his voice is too loud. It echoes off the vaulted ceiling, and a hush falls over the room.

Slowly, Talan's dark gaze slides to Lumos, and the air grows colder around us. "You're drunk again, Lumos. Time for your nap, I think, before you say something you'll regret. You don't want to lose your head."

Talan takes a sip of his wine and leans against the alcove wall, looking bored. But the threat was delivered like an arrow to the throat. Lumos's cheeks redden, and he turns away. With a dark smile, Talan watches his cousin skulk off.

A House de Morgan power play in action.

Talan meets my gaze again. Arching an eyebrow, he beckons me closer. Another power play, as he's not coming to me. But we haven't been playing the part well enough—we're on a stage with an audience before us, and we should be playing the roles of two lovers in lust. Rumors have already spread.

I move closer to him and drop into his lap. He smells delicious, musky and tinged with jasmine. His arm slides around my waist, and his body is pure, unyielding muscle against the thin fabric of my dress. His lips are by the side of my face, his breath warming the shell of my ear. "My little farm girl, you're going to need to fake some interest in me." His hand slides over my thigh, and I feel the heat of it through the translucent fabric of my dress.

I whisper back. "What do you have in mind, exactly?"

"Nia, love, you're going to have to kiss me." The deep sound of his voice in my ear strokes over my skin like a sensual caress.

Warmth creeps over my cheeks, and his hand moves over my hip. Only the thin fabric of my dress separates us, and heat ripples out from his palm.

My gaze dips to his full, sensual lips, and my pulse races.

It's just a kiss. All part of the spy game, of course. Agents of Avalon Tower must do all kinds of things on our missions. Things we normally wouldn't dream of, like kissing the enemy.

I feel their eyes on us, watching. Waiting.

I lick my lips, and his gaze flicks down to my mouth. His pupils dilate, the copper blending to black. His thumb strokes languidly up and down on my hip, then circles over the hollow of my thigh, sending hot tingles in the wake of his touch.

I lean forward, my mouth hovering just over his, his breath mingling with mine.

"Nia." There's a fierce, ragged edge in the way he whispers my name, his lips so close to mine. "I hear your heart racing. You can lie to yourself, but you can't lie to me. I think you're interested in me after all."

Oh, he has my interest. I loathe him and fear him, but I'm also painfully aware of how breathtakingly beautiful he is, this man with the dangerous smile, the seductive eyes, and the muscled body of a Fey warrior.

This close to him, his body warms mine. I lean into his chest, and it feels like pure steel. I brush my thumb over his full lower lip, my heart racing. His breath hitches, and I'm surprised that I have this effect on him. I search his eyes and find an unexpected hunger there instead of his usual detached expression. It's a strange and powerful feeling to have captured the full force of Prince Talan de Morgan's attention. He's enraptured.

My lips move closer to him, and the rest of the room fades, along with the sound of the quartet and the voices echoing in the hall.

Closing my eyes, I brush my lips against his. Tentatively. Questioningly. But already, even with that light touch, heat is blooming in my core. I feel as if sparks are dancing over my skin.

That gentle taste sends warmth plunging through my body. His hand strokes up my back, and his fingers lace into my hair. Slowly, he flicks his tongue over my lower lip. My lips part, and I press my mouth harder against his. I'm not sure whose tongue slides in first—his? Mine? All I know is we kiss—a deep, sensual kiss—and I lose track of the world around me. Kiss? He's savoring me, exploring me. I shift positions, straddling him, my dress hitching up to my thighs. I kiss him more deeply, and as his tongue brushes against mine, I forget where I am while an exquisite ache builds inside me. His hand slides to the small of my back, pulling me closer to him, my breasts brushing against his hard chest. He groans faintly as he kisses me.

I slide my hand under the hem of his shirt and trace the warm skin, the carved abs. Gods, his body is perfect. As he kisses me, my hips rock against him, and I hear another light moan from deep in his chest.

He nips at my lower lip, and I pull away, catching my breath. My lips are still close to his, my heart racing. Darkness has spread through his eyes, devouring the copper. I want to rock my hips against him again, I want to kiss him again, but I'm trying to control myself. This is all for show. That's all. He's still gripping my hair, his expression smoldering, half-lidded, lips parted. Ravenous.

And as for me? I don't want to admit to myself how much I want more. I'm literally here to kill this man.

"Is that enough?" I whisper through heavy breaths. I'm shocked to realize I almost want him to say no.

"You did well," he whispers. He moves his hand around and cups the side of my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. "But I'm going to need to visit your room at night. There are rumors going around, apparently, that we don't spend enough time together."

"You'll stay in my room?" I whisper. This is a terrible idea. I can't be around him, that close to him. His seductive power will absolutely disrupt my ability to do this job. "Is it really necessary?"

He arches an eyebrow. "You're welcome to take the floor."

"Such a gentleman."

As I narrow my eyes at him, I remember that everyone is watching us, that my dress is hitched up. That we're not alone, though the rest of the room has gone silent. The only noise at the moment is the string quartet, and when I gaze around the hall, I find them all staring at us.

For a few heated moments, I'd nearly forgotten everyone in the room.

I shift on his lap, pulling down the hem of my dress, my cheeks going red.

I need to keep my distance from him as best I can. His allure is dangerous , and I will lose myself in his seductive charm instead of doing my job.

I'm here for an assassination. That needs to be at the forefront of my mind.

My heart is still hammering, my chest flushed as I slide off his lap and walk away from him. I smooth out my dress, painfully aware of everyone staring. Arwenna is giving me a death glare, her face white, jaw tight.

As I stand, someone offers me a strawberry tart, and I pluck it off the tray, eager for a distraction. My breath is still shallow, my heart still racing. I force myself to stop thinking about how it felt when we kissed.

I focus on the tart instead.

Strawberries don't grow in Brocéliande; they have to be imported from France. They're considered an incredibly expensive delicacy, served only on very formal events. Most of the tart is made of Brocéliande korriberries, harvested from the forests. But there's a single large strawberry on top.

I have no appetite, but my fake persona would gobble this up—the poor farm girl who lived through a famine.

As I bring the tart to my lips, something silver flutters up. It's Mordred's moth. It skitters in the air, circles around my tart once, and flies away.

A warning.

Thank you, Mordred.

I shoot a nervous glance at Talan, but he's already gone from the alcove. He's back in his chair, and one of Arwenna's dark-haired friends is perched on the armrest. She has gorgeous cheekbones, and her arms are covered in dark tattoos. She and Talan look annoyingly perfect together, like two frustratingly gorgeous goth Fey models. She's practically in his lap, her arm around his shoulders, breasts directly at his eye level.

I glance across the room at Arwenna. She sits next to another friend, a smile fixed on her face, but she's doing her best not to look my way. Clenching her spoon tightly, she stares at me from the corner of her eye, waiting for me to take a bite.

I can easily act drunk and drop my strawberry tart to the floor, temporarily saving myself. But that won't end the assassination attempts. She'll just keep at it. If she managed to poison my tart, it means she has someone working for her in the kitchen staff and a servant to make sure it goes out in front of me. And at some point, Mordred won't alert me in time.

I need to make sure this never happens again.

My first thought is to go over to her and use my mind control to force her to confess, but I don't want to expose my powers like that. She'll accuse me immediately, and my cover will be blown. Claiming that I suspect the tart is poisoned will draw attention as well, and people will want to know who told me. I can't even tell Talan how I know.

No, I need to figure out a more subtle approach.

The music shifts to a jauntier tune, and a few people start dancing. Guests are mingling between the banquet tables, chatting.

I turn to Talan and the woman who is now running her finger over his lower lip. Bizarrely, I feel a twinge of anger at her. My relationship with Talan is utterly fake, but she doesn't know that. On the other hand, this twat is giving me the perfect excuse to get out of here.

"Looks like you're occupied," I snap at Talan. "I'm going to go for a walk until you come to your senses."

He turns to me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. The candlelight wavers over the perfect planes of his face, and he starts to shift the woman off him and stand.

"Oh, don't bother," I say sharply.

I turn and stalk away, the strawberry tart in my hand.

I keep up the angry act, if it can be called an act, as I pass a few nobles from the high council meeting. With every step, I feel Arwenna's eyes on me, waiting to see if I will take a bite. When I turn her way, she quickly shifts her stare and lets out a loud, fake laugh. She'd make a terrible spy.

When I'm close to her, I brush against one of the waiters. As I do that, I tug at my powers. Abrupt pain shoots through my skull, but I ignore the piercing throb. I dive into the waiter's mind and sift through his thoughts, desires, and worries. I don't have much time, so I plant a single tiny thing in his mind and pull away. As I release my magic, the pain dissipates to a dull throb.

I pivot and stalk around the banquet tables until I'm standing across from Arwenna, then smile at her. "Hello."

Her eyes flick down to the tart—still uneaten. She brushes her silver hair behind her shoulders. "Hello," she says coldly.

I drop my tart on the plate next to hers, and I can see her effort not to glance at it. Her tart, unlike mine, doesn't have a strawberry on it. They're only for the elite, and apparently, Arwenna didn't make the cut.

"I feel like we started off on the wrong foot," I say. "I don't know many people in the palace. Since you and Talan are clearly close, I'd be glad to get to know you better."

She stiffens. "I don't think that's going to?—"

A sudden crash behind her makes her whirl around. The waiter I've mind controlled just dropped his tray, and dozens of crystal glasses shatter on the floor. All eyes are on him except mine.

The head waiter lunges forward. "You fool! Look what you've done."

"I'm…I'm sorry," the waiter blurts. Falling to his knees, he frantically begins to pick up the pieces, ignoring his bleeding fingers.

"Leave that!" the head waiter snaps. "Go get a broom. We can't have guests cutting their feet on those shards. Someone could get hurt."

Shaking her head, Arwenna turns to her friend. "The staff here are getting more useless every day. They have no standards anymore." She slides her gaze to me. "No standards for any of those we let in here these days, isn't that right, Nia?"

"I'm not sure what you mean." Might as well play dumb, at least for a few minutes. I pick up the tart and take a large bite.

"Don't you remember, Alenia, when we only let those of noble blood into the castle? All the mistresses were at least ladies and not desperate social climbers from filthy hovels." Arwenna stares at me as I eat the tart, her eyes twinkling viciously as I chew. "Those of noble breeding are the most exquisite beauties and shining intellects, and only they should get close to the throne."

"Is that right?"

She raises her chin and sniffs the air. "Why is it that every time I'm near you, I smell the rancid stench of a demi-Fey?"

My blood runs cold, but I pretend to ignore her, staring at the tart instead. "This tastes a bit off," I say, grimacing. "I think something's wrong with it."

Smiling, she takes a bite of her own tart. "Tastes fine to me. I don't think there's anything wrong with them. I'm not going to waste it, even if they forgot my strawberry."

"Maybe it's fine," I say with a frown. "Well, it's been nice talking to you."

I wave and saunter away, taking another bite from the tart.

Returning to my chair, I sit and wipe the crumbs from my lips. In all honesty, it's one of the best desserts I've ever tasted.

Leaning back, I fix my gaze on Arwenna. After a minute or two, her expression changes, the color draining from her cheeks. Her forehead wrinkles, and she grabs a glass of water, nearly knocks it over, then manages to grip it. With a shaking hand, she drains the water, then stares at the leftovers of her tart. Her eyes widen at the faint pink sheen on the top of the tart, where my sliced strawberry used to be.

Her jaw drops open, and she turns to me, eyes wide with horror. She covers her mouth, looking like she's about to vomit. I pick up my mead glass and raise it at her, smiling tightly.

She runs from the room.

Maybe she has an antidote, but I don't think she'll try to poison me again.

I may not be of noble breeding, but now the bitch knows who she's dealing with.