Chapter 89: Eighty Nine
Bad news? Cecilia’s not dead. I didn’t trigger the start of a war with a fruit cutter.
Good news? Everyone’s keeping their distance from me. I’m apparently very volatile. Ah, well, I thought they already knew that.
Irritating news? Astrea has been flirting with Lucien all night. They keep laughing and I keep wondering what the hell, exactly, is funny. Lucien isn’t even that funny.
Okay, well, maybe he is. A little. But she’s doing all the talking and he’s been chortling. He’s even granted her a dance. And four more. And she keeps pressing her breasts against his chest, the entire thing right there in his face and I can’t even tell if he finds her neckpiece interesting or he’s actually staring at her very generous bossom.
My fingers tighten on the perch of Cyrus’s shoulder as he twirls me across the floors, and I wish I could concentrate on how great of a dancer he is, but my gaze keeps flicking back to where Lucien’s hand grips Astrea’s waist as he moves her about with expertise. Her nose is practically near his neck and I just know she’s sighing because he smells great.
"Lyra," Cyrus murmurs, his lips brushing against the crown of my head. "You’re crushing my arm."
"Oh," I say, loosening my grip as embarrassment warms my cheeks. "I’m sorry."
His lips quirk into a small smile as we continue in the quick waltz. "Nothing to apologize for. It’s been an infuriatingly long day. While your presence is forever a charm, I would do anything to be done with this Summit."
I glance up at him. "You’re hosting. It’s supposed to be fun."
He shakes his head. "We cannot bear to sleep too deep without our swords by our beds with the enemy taking shelter in our homes. Every time someone moans or laughs too loudly, we wonder if they’re being killed."
"Relax," I laugh. "We both know the terms fixed in place says we cannot, on any account, attack Voss."
That doesn’t help his brooding expression, but he seems to wave it off with a blink and smiles down at me. "I heard a great deal of the last stage of the Selection. Sad that I wasn’t there to see it."
My eyes narrow. "Says the one who stole away at night like a jilted lover."
Cyrus regards me strangely. "I stole away? You refused to see me."
"I did?"
His black eyebrows climb to this forehead. "King Lucien made it very clear that you had rejected my offer and wouldn’t be seeing me. I left him a note for you, even." He looks at me. "Did he not extend it to you?"
My lips part in surprise. "He did not." I cast a glare off in the man’s direction. Not that he even notices, dancing now with a human, a brunette with big baby blue eyes. "What was in it? The note?"
He shrugs. "A means to reach me, if you changed your mind. And a couple of things that may be found inappropriate, now that you are claimed and wed."
My mind whirls around his words. And I cannot help but think, in anger, that Lucien is the absolute worst thing that’s happened to me. I can only imagine what he did with the note. Probably promised Cyrus he would give it to me and the moment the man turned around, he chucked it in the fire.
Bastard.
The music changes and Cyrus nods with a small smile, lifting our hands high as he twirls me in a shift of partners.
I start walking straight to the bar when a hand closes around my waist, tugging me into a hard chest.
"I’d take offense at your earlier display," Rafe whispers against my ear. "But I had secretly wished you aimed for me instead."
I try shaking off his hand, but he doesn’t let go. I feel the weight of stares pressing against me from every direction in the hall at Rafael’s indiscretion. Sure enough, Lucien chooses that one moment to glance over and the heat of his gaze sears into my back like an arrow to a target.
It makes me want to run far away from Rafe.
"I’m not that stupid," I say. "You were goading him on purpose. Had he lashed out at you, this fragile moment of peace would have been broken. Nowhere in history has it been heard that a king struck another king and it didn’t start a war."
He straightens and I catch the smile tugging at his mouth. "You’ve changed, in every respect. It is refreshing, really, to see that you would kill to preserve the image of a man who doesn’t respect yours in the slightest." He inclines his head over to where Lucien is.
He’s dancing with Melene.
My body tightens, my throat clogging with discomfort as I stare at them. The girl is beautiful. Alarmingly so. She’s the kind men do things for without even needing to ask. With her innocent doe eyes and her clear inexperience. Maybe, Lucien finds charm in that. Maybe he likes them naïve. Maybe he likes them ’not Valka’.
"All of us, to each our own," I say with a smile that I know doesn’t reach my eyes.
Rafael steers us in a circle, blocking off my sight of them, so that I have no choice but to meet his cool grey stare as his eyes rake over my black dress that fits every curve and drapes over my like second skin. "You are a vision in that dress--"
"Spare me," I cut in. "You didn’t think I was a vision when you were screwing Astrea in front of me, after rejecting me."
"You were," he says. "You have no idea how incredibly hard I was, seeing you mad like that."
I trip on the ends of my trail, completely thrown off-kilter by his words. He dips, catching me before I fall, and his chest is warm against mine, and I imagine any other woman would find him incredibly handsome, with the offset of his hair against olive skin, hooded eyes, his strong jaw, aristocratic nose and lips that were curved to break hearts.
But I couldn’t bring myself to see him as anything but a man who would choose his crown, his pride, sully his honour and dirty his hands with my blood if it served him well enough.
And in the last six months of my life, I’ve learned that the devil comes in pretty skin and eccentric eyes. Occasionally, he was the most beautiful man in the room, or the most charming.
I shove at him and head straight for the small bar, aching to dull my senses. To dull the twisting ache in my chest.
I pull off my gloves as I grab at the first drink. The second. The third. The fourth. By the seventh, the faint sound of Lucien’s chuckling is finally drowning in the sea of many voices, and just when I think I might finally get some reprieve tonight, a feminine voice croons beside me, "I should’ve known what you were the second I laid eyes on you."
Tilting my head over, I meet Astrea’s light brown stare. They’re filled with anger and hate. "I believe you’re about to educate me on what you think I am."
"At the camp, I’d thought you a whore son. Now, I’m most definitely sure you’re a slut."
"Go away, Astrea. It’s not my fault you cannot keep a leash on your husband," I say, bringing the glass to my lips for another swig.
But she doesn’t listen, in the way no one listens to me. When I drop the glass, in pretext to reach for hers, she knocks mine over, splashing the liquid all over my dress. Then she gasps, reaching down to dab at my ruined dress, "Oh my, you must forgive me. It’s sullied now, but I suppose it’s hardly noticeable, amongst all that filth that coats your skin."
I stare at her. I breathe. I tell myself it is unbecoming of a Queen to throw a punch. I smile softly. "I’ll just change into something else. I didn’t like the dress, anyway."
Any normal person would have backed off at my lack of reaction. But Astrea seems to have a world of hatred directed at me, because she keeps badgering at me, like it’ll change the fact that Rafael hasn’t looked once in her direction tonight. And somehow, it’s supposed to be my fault.
"I do not understand what it is about you that draws them to you, but I do acknowledge that men are drawn like flies to easily parted thighs."
Repress.
She leans in. "You are a nobody. A frail, little thing. Forget Rafael. You have no business being here. This is not your crowd. This is not your place. A crown on your brow doesn’t make you special. Marrying a king doesn’t make you worth anything." Her brown gaze carries over to Lucien. "The only interesting thing about you is him. A man like that would make even a cheap whore like you look regal, but it won’t make you more than what you really are."
Her red lips curve into a catty smile. "You belong in a pleasure house, with trinkets around your ankles, naked, dancing with coins tossed at your feet and the men you so clearly salivate for bargaining for how cheaply they can rail you through. It is, after all, all you did in the training camps, cunt."
I loosen a breath and turn to face her, fully. "What exactly upsets you? My seemingly perfect life and mate that you so desperately want? Or the fact that even when your husband thought I was a man, he still wanted me way more than he did you?"
She slaps me. Hard. The sound echoes in the hall, stopping even the music as everyone turns to look. The impact jerks my head to the side and I laugh at my eyes water, as my ears ring. "Rotten bitch."
What has being the better, more mature person ever done for me?
Astrea is significantly taller than I am. So I grab a fistful of her hair and yank her down to eye level. "The first thing anyone learns about me is that I don’t do well with childish banter. Violence, however, is my forte."
I slam her head into the counter, scrapping it across the surface. The sound of bones crunching brings me so much satisfaction, it has to be unhealthy.