Page 109 of Burning Heir

Maybe it always had been his to claim. Maybe he was right when he said my breaths were owed to him.

His hands tightened around my waist, pulling me closer, anchoring me to him even as I became acutely aware of the hundreds of eyes surrounding us, including the apparent journalist staring wide-eyed.

Thunder cracked above—a jagged sound that echoed in my chest as lightning streaked across the sky. The world seemed to hold its breath.

I tasted the wine lingering on his tongue, dark and rich. His shadows seeped into me, coiling in my lungs and stealing the air until a silent moan slipped between our parted lips. He claimed every curve of my mouth, every inch of me, as though he were imprinting himself onto my soul. His hands tangled in my hair, the grip firm and possessive, deepening that forbidden touch.

Every essence of Archer felt forbidden—and I craved it.

I needed him.

He pulled away just enough to lift my chin, his thumb brushing against my jawline as his eyes burned into mine. “I didn’t think a flame could cast a shadow.”

My lips trembled as I answered, my voice barely audible. “I didn’t either.”

We both turned to watch Kian as he raised his palm into the sky, and shattering starlight broke through. He fisted the air, smothering whatever dark quell had broken through. Archer grinned silently. He grinned as if his heir stood feet away.

“Kian—” I breathed.

Archer shook his head, tightening his fingers under my jaw. “Knowing you’ve let down your entire country is not a great feeling.”

There was a moment of silence as the quells began to simmer, and our smoking shadows blew away in the wind. Archer dropped his hand, clearing his throat. “My father is here.”

The skin on my back crawled. “Is everything okay?”

A tall, darker-skinned male appeared out of thin air in the center of the dancing. A teal suit framed his slender figure as white gloves covered his outstretched hands. I pulled away as if the pounding realization struck that Archer had kissed me, and I’d gotten a shadow quell.

Siphoning the seawater in a spiral, the Serpent of Summer raised his hands. Cheers sounded as every lantern sputtered once the water fell, simmering even me. A few civilians gawked and bowed while others curtsied. Archer’s father was even more intimidating than in his portrait as pounding drums welcomed his grand entrance.

His eyes tightened on Kian with a quick nod. Archer gripped my elbow—portaling us back to the house through the shadows.

As dusk broke, he slung his bow over his shoulder, dragging me down to the entrance. “I’m not in the mood to converse with my father tonight. We’ll make our way to Ravensla. I’m sure Lynwood has room unless you are up to fly throughout the night?”

“Is it because I am here?” I asked nervously.

He shut his mouth, no doubt contemplating his words. “As I said, some Serpents have good alliances. I don’t have the best political relationship with my father.”

I gripped his arm, forcing him to face me. “You are his son? Is that not enough of a bind to forgive the past Serpent of Night?”

“Not when that man was my grandfather,” said Archer in a rush. He pulled me toward the black stallion as a single drop of water fell onto my forehead.

“Your grandfather was the past Shadow Serpent?”

My breath caught as Kian and Victor stood before us, and it was silent as if all the noise was stripped from the world, even my voice as Archer’s father opened his arms for an embrace, the crawling serpent trailing his arm and neck hissed with a clench of his spread shoulders.

“Archer, my son. You’ve come home for the Harvest Festival. How… lovely.” His eyes flickered to mine, wavering along my streak of neval. He clicked his tongue. “And you’ve brought North Colindale’s daughter with you. How strange.”

I lowered my chin. “Yes, sir. Your realm is beautiful, and your home is breathtaking,” I stuttered.

He stared at Archer’s hand on me. “Flattery will get you nowhere, darling. Archer, you seem to be leaving. Surely, you can stay one more night for your dear old father.”

My veins chilled under the weight of the Serpent’s voice. He had no idea I was up for taking his title.

I squeezed Archer’s elbow, and he grinned, choking his words in a rush. “Of course, Father.”

To crumble before someone was not weakness; it was suffering, and I wished for a night’s breadth to see fear cling to his eyes. Instead, I saw raw vulnerability when the sun dimmed next.

And so the bat of his father crept past us, welcoming Archer and me into his cave.

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