The Golden Gryphon and the Bear Prince (Heirs of Magic #1) - Jeffe Kennedy Page 0,2

him answer the summons, attend Her Majestyness,” he added irreverently, “We’ll stay here and keep the mjed warm.”

“Her Majesty High Queen Ursula asked for all seven of you, Prince Rhyian,” the footman replied to Rhy’s protest. “She commands that you meet her immediately in her study.”

“Not really a prince,” Rhy muttered darkly.

“I’ll go with you, Astar,” Zephyr purred, leaning her breast against his arm. She’d been seizing every opportunity that night to flirt with him. This was nothing new, as that was Zephyr’s nature. She flirted with anyone and everyone, and—in typical Tala fashion—the free-spirited shapeshifter woman took as many lovers as she liked. Astar had managed to keep from being alone with her all these years, which had worked to keep her from testing his resistance beyond recovering. That night, however, she had changed tactics. She’d focused entirely on him, uncaring who noticed, intent on seduction. She’d been working on wearing him down for hours now.

She’d even given him a secret promise to honor the Feast of Moranu. The folded piece of paper in his pocket burned there like a live coal. He was afraid to read it, unsure if he could hold out against whatever temptation she’d seen fit to write down.

It had already nearly killed him to deflect her subtle—and progressively more overt—suggestions. Only the long habit of refusing her shored up his strained willpower. Zephyr had been a pretty girl, but she’d become an outrageously beautiful woman. Especially so that night, all dressed up to celebrate the Feast of Moranu. With her curling black hair tumbling nearly to the hem of her crimson ballgown, her sensual lips painted the same shade, deep blue eyes huge in her gorgeous face… well, his lifelong weakness for her had billowed into raging desire. With her natural ebullience, verve, and zest for life, Zephyr was everything he wasn’t. Even after all these years, every time he saw Zephyr, he found it harder to resist her.

And he must resist, at all costs.

“Please, Your Highnesses, lords and ladies, you must all go,” the footman begged, practically dancing from foot to foot in impatience. “Her Majesty is waiting.”

Astar didn’t bother telling the footman that particular argument didn’t carry much weight with this group. “Can you tell us what this is about?” he asked, hoping that might convince the crew of merrymakers to sober up—literally.

The footman gulped. “No, Your Highness. It’s a matter of both utmost secrecy and urgency.”

How strange. “All right, everyone,” Astar said, stepping up to lead the group and extracting himself from Zephyr’s intoxicating touch. They’d all been indulging in whiskey, mjed, and wine—to the point that even the shapeshifters with their high metabolisms were tipsy, which made them even more difficult to corral than usual. Astar was glad that he’d been moderate in his drinking, as always excruciatingly aware of his responsibilities as heir to the high throne. Plus, he’d figured fending off Zephyr’s advances would go from next to impossible to disastrous failure if he got tipsy. “We must obey the summons of the High Queen,” he reminded them. “If Her Majesty truly doesn’t need some of you, you’ll be back to the party soon enough.”

“Fine,” Rhy grumbled. “But we’re bringing our plates. Salena is starving after that prodigious display of magic.” He gave her a proud smile, and she blushed with pleasure.

“It really was amazing, Lena,” Gen gushed. “I’m sorry I didn’t say so immediately. The way you cleared the storm and revealed the moon with your weather magic exactly at the dark of midnight, I got chills. It was an incandescent experience.”

“I’ll get our sorceress celebrity more wine,” Zephyr declared, heading to the ice sculpture of Castle Ordnung with its cascading fountain of white-gold sparkling wine. “Anyone else—Astar, darling?”

“No, thank you,” Astar called to her, giving the footman a sympathetic nod. “We’ll start walking, and you catch up.” Setting the example, he briskly moved the group in the direction of the queen’s study. “Don’t be concerned,” he told the footman, who looked anxiously back at Zephyr. “She won’t miss this.” Zephyr might seem flighty to some—sometimes Astar suspected she deliberately cultivated that impression—but she always came through when needed.

Astar’s sister, Stella, slipped a hand through the crook of his elbow, her presence a steady comfort. Sensitive to emotions and a powerful healer, his twin rarely touched anyone except for him. She’d often commented that putting a hand on his arm felt the same as putting one hand in the other, and he knew just what she meant.