Master of Storms (Legends of the Storm #5) - Bec McMaster Page 0,3
his lips, their eyes meeting.
Solveig’s feet ground to a halt the second he laid his lips upon her.
Her heart stopped dead in her chest.
And her dreki suddenly screamed within her, unfurling tight wings within the cage of her ribs and fighting to break free.
“Are you all right?” Siv whispered on a thought-thread, mind-to-mind, because she alone among others, always noticed the little things.
Solveig slammed a fist to her chest, fighting to contain the rage and fear. It was breathtaking. Blinding. She was left pinwheeling through stormy skies the way she had been when her mother had died right in front of her.
“Solveig?” This time, Siv sounded worried, but she merely slid her fingers through Solveig’s other hand so as not to be noticed, lacing them tightly together.
She would not be defeated by this foreign prince.
She would not be undone by a single smile.
She could control the dreki inside her. And whatever had set it off, she would deal with it later.
“I’m fine,” she sent back, then turned to the prince. “Are you quite… done?”
He glanced up at her, his lips still caressing her knuckles, and their eyes met.
It was as if he stole the breath from her lungs. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. The world around them vanished. There was only Marduk with that knowing smile as he straightened, and the soft brush of his lips doing dangerous things to her skin.
Another lance of fury went through her, almost twisting her inside out. The dreki hissed, wanting to stab at him with its claws, wanting to hurl itself at him, to pin him down, to kiss that arrogant mouth, to kill him.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed as she tore her hand from his, her skin prickling as if she’d dipped it in pure lava. Curling her fist to her heart, she fought to see through the fury. Goddess, what was happening to her?
“Solveig?” Her father called.
Solveig had never wanted to kill someone so much in her entire life.
“I am fine,” she snarled, turning on her heel and stalking toward the throne room doors. “I have done my bit for this farce. I need air.”
And a chance to breathe.
Because she’d promised Aslaug she wouldn’t kill him, and Solveig always kept her promises.
“Well, that went as well as expected,” Niels murmured the second Marduk was shown to his rooms.
Marduk barely noticed the doors shutting. Everything within the throne room had turned to a muted murmur of apologies and hushed voices the second the princess stormed from the chambers.
He slung the velvet cloak from his shoulders. Niels had chosen it for him, intending to present him as some pretty princeling from a foreign court for some reason. It wasn’t until he’d walked inside the throne room and come face-to-face with the three daughters of King Harald the Shrewd that he’d begun to realize exactly why he was dressed like a peacock.
This entire affair was a trap, and he’d walked into it blithely, with his eyes closed.
“You’re needed for the signing of a treaty,” he said, pitching his voice high enough to mimic his mother’s. “Just smile and shake hands, Marduk. Sign with a flourish. Charm our new allies.” He shot Niels a sharp look as he dropped the falsetto. “It’s strange, Niels, but I could have sworn there was a gleam in Harald’s eye when he introduced his daughters. All three of them. He practically gift wrapped them too. What’s going on?”
The dreki ambassador picked up his cloak and began to fold it. “The Zini clan is forging an alliance with the Sadu.”
“How?” His voice became steel. “Precisely how are we forging an alliance?”
Niels arched a cool brow. “Your mother assured us you would be key to securing this treaty—”
“I knew it.” He curled his right hand into a fist. “No. I will not mate with a female I’ve only just met! I never agreed to this. My mother presumes too much.”
The seneschal gave a little smile.
Marduk chased after it. “What? What was all that about? Did you not hear me? I said I won’t do it.”
“You didn’t ask which one it was.”
He’d been expecting protestations of “but the treaty” or “serve your clan.” He’d been prepared for such arguments too.
Except this one caught him at an odd angle.
It was bait.
Bait dressed in a fine gown, with a head full of braids and a smile of white, perfect teeth. Or more to the point…. Bait dressed in slick leather with a cloak of raven feathers, and a golden circlet resting on its brow.