Page 22 of Daughter of the Ninth Line: Part Two

I gave him a crooked smile. “I bet.” There was something about the way Vox carried himself that told me he knew what to do between the bedsheets. But that wasn’t the aspect of being his wife that I meant. “Your life is right there under the spotlight, all light and heat and eyes on you. That’s the exact opposite of the person I am. I’d melt under that kind of scrutiny.”

He was silent for a long time, and I wondered once again if I’d offended him. Finally, he sighed. “I don’t like it either. But it is the life the Goddess gifted me, even if sometimes it feels more like a prison than a present.” He lifted a hand and stroked a thumb across my bottom lip. “It’s a shame, though. Tonight has been surprisingly not tedious. I would have liked to do it again sometime.”

Snorting, I shook my head. “High praise from Your Highness,” I mocked. “I said I didn’t want to be your wife, Vox. Not that I didn’t want to do… other things.”

That cocky smirk was back. “What things?”

Instead of telling him, I launched myself at him, kissing him hard on the lips with more enthusiasm than finesse. He kissed me back, holding me easily against his body. Despite the fact the skirts of my dress kept me hogtied, my legs were desperate to wrap around his hips.

He took easy control of the kiss, and soon enough, I was pressed against my door. His hands hiked up my dress, and he hissed into my mouth when his calloused palms reached the warm skin of my thigh. He squeezed the flesh hard, then dragged himself away.

“Fuck, you feel and taste too tempting, Avalon Halhed.” He looked disheveled. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him look anything but calmly in control. “I have to go to Fortaare for a few days. When I get back…” He trailed off, like he was trying to find the words to explain all the terrible, debauched things he’d like to do to me. “Think about where you would like this to progress, because Avalon?” He leaned closer to me, until our lips were almost touching again. “I can’t wait to taste your pleasure on my tongue. Can’t wait until you’re screaming my name so every single person in Boellium will know that I am fucking you so good, I’ll be branded on your soul forever.” He brushed his lips lightly across mine. “See you in a few days.”

Then he turned and began the long climb back to his glass tower, while I was left panting at the door to my abandoned dorm.

Goddess, what have I done?

Fourteen

Hayle

It was good to be back with my father. My Line. My clan. Someone with more dominance than me, so I could just relax for once and hand off the mantle of responsibility to him, even if it was only for the duration of this tedious Conclave.

It was custom for the Barons of the Lines to bring their spare Heirs to these things. Firstly, to preserve the Lines, should anything underhanded happen, and secondly, in case something happened to the first Heir and we were stuck in the position of taking over the Barony of our Line.

The only silver lining to this was that if I had to be here, so did Vox Vylan, so he wasn’t back at Boellium, making moon eyes at Avalon Halhed.

“How is Boellium?” Father asked, leading me through the ostentatious walkways of the Hall of Ebrus in Fortaare. It had been completed by Vox’s forefathers and was as cold and barren as its creators.

I shrugged. “It’s the same as ever, I guess. Political ass-kissing and Vylan being an asshole.”

A small smile quirked his lips. “That does sound about right.”

Up ahead, I could see a small gathering of the other Barons and Heirs. “Who called the meeting today?” I asked quietly.

Father’s jaw flexed. “A joint request by the Eleventh and Twelfth Lines.”

Interesting.Joint requests were unusual, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out what the purpose of the meeting was. The record high number of Lower Line conscripts, especially from the Eleventh and Twelfth Lines, due to the drought, spoke volumes of what was happening over there in the Western parts of Ebrus.

Standing in front of the doorway was someone who was far more interesting to me than he’d been at the previous sixteen of these tedious Conclaves I’d had to attend. The Baron of the Ninth Line looked nothing like his daughter. He held none of her light; instead, he seemed almost drab in comparison. It could be because Avalon shone brightly, or it could be because Baron Halhed was famously a drunkard and had the gray pallor to match. His hair was unkempt, and although he held himself tall—perhaps a throwback to the man he’d once been—his clothes hung off him in an ill-fitting way, the smell of stale liquor making my nose scrunch.

Beneath even that scent was the taint of illness. Probably something from drinking himself into a grave, but if he did die soon, I could only imagine his Barony would benefit from his Heir stepping into his shoes.

Hell, the Conclave as a whole would benefit from some younger blood in its ranks. So far, only Baron Zier Tarrin of the Eighth Line was younger than fifty.

My father greeted the other Barons, and I watched Roman Halhed out of the corner of my eye. The way he moved, the way he spoke, the things he said were all more interesting to me this time.

It irked me that Vox Vylan seemed to be watching him intently too.

Finally, Feodore Vylan, the Baron of the First Line and our official ruler, appeared. “Barons, thank you for gathering. Shall we begin? There is a feast to be had after this.”

The subtle jibe at the Eleventh and Twelfth Lines landed squarely, and I watched the way their jaws tensed.

My father hated Feodore Vylan, and I understood why. Vox was a high-handed, pompous asshole, but there was something truly predatory about the Baron of the First Line. A power that was insidious and unchecked, because there was no one in Ebrus who could stand against him outside of his own children, and they weren’t about to give up their power anytime soon.

Once everyone was seated at the long table—with Vylan at the head, of course—Baron Abaster of the Eleventh Line stood. “The Eleventh and Twelfth Lines request aid from the Capital. Our people are starving, due to consecutive years of drought conditions. We have reached a crisis point, and if nothing is done within the next six months, our people will begin to perish. Our numbers will dwindle, and those who remain will become environmental refugees.”

Feodore Vylan waved a hand. “I understand you’re facing hardships, Baron Abaster, but we govern our own Baronies…” I watched the faces of the rest of the Barons firm up at his words, and I knew that was it for the Eleventh and Twelfth Lines. Vylan had just declared it not their problem, absolving them of any need to concern themselves with the Lower Lines.

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