Page 53 of Of Song and Scepter
Fuck.I squint up at the sky. The sun is a sickening pink, the color of Prince Soren’s tongue as it dragged down my neck. I clench my thighs as another thrill flutters through my core.
I lurch to my feet and march to meet the surf. A quick swim should cool me off, put these thoughts to rest.
But the water is already piss-warm. The currents caress my sensitive folds, and I can only stand it for long enough to clear the sand from my hair. I burst through the surface and stomp back onto the beach, shivering and quivering with irritation.
This is ridiculous.
I unsheathe a dagger, testing its weight. Dragging a breath in through my nose, I settle into my fighting stance. My enemy appears before my mind’s eye—a wispy figure for now—and I form his body and weapon, leaving his face blank. Already, he looks too much like the prince. Too large and looming.
I attack my imaginary opponent, slashing the air where his arm would be. My attack feels off balance, too quick in the dry air. I hiss, digging my toes into the sand to root myself. I slash, dodge, and whirl to kick his stomach. He bowls over, and I slice through his throat.
I tilt my head left, then right, popping the tension from my muscles. Already, blood is flowing hotter in my veins. The dream crawls into the back of my mind where it belongs. Good fucking riddance.
I repeat the exercise until I’m a blur of muscle and movement. I have no room for thought.
Then I hear his laugh, that dark, satisfying baritone, and I freeze. My imagined enemy dissipates. I shake my head—the laugh must be left over from my dream. I shove down the intrusive thought with an inhale and settle back into my stance.
“Am I interrupting?” the prince says.
I blink, and he’s there, a lopsided grin on his face.
“Yes.”
He’s in a cotton shirt today, robe-like and loose. The fabric ripples in the breeze, caressing his muscled chest. He clutches a whitesteel trident.
When his gaze clashes with mine, my heart leaps into my throat. His lips curve, and once again, I’m thinking of those lips dragging down my neck, those white teeth grazing my nipple. I shake my head to clear the thought.
“Excellent,” he says, untying his shirt.
It parts to reveal the broad expanse of his stomach, his chest. A speckled pattern of emerald green scales covers his skin, congregating in a trail leading to the deep V of his hips. His shoulders rotate, broader and stronger than I’d imagined last night. The linen pants barely cling to his hip bones, obscuring the rest of him from view.
I swallow hard, willing the fluttering in my core to stop. I’m already fucked. The prince runs a hand loosely through his hair, and my own scalp cries out for the same touch.
His gaze lingers on my form a second too long, his eyes sparkling. “Do you have a thing against our fashion?”
I look down at myself, noting, once again, that I’m wearing nothing but my loincloth. My chest piece is discarded in the pit where I slept last night, having torn it off in my sleep.
“Clio can get you some workout clothing, I’m sure.” He gestures to his pants, and I can’t miss the strength of those thighs visible through the thin fabric.
“Too restrictive,” I spit.
The prince crouches into a fighting stance, tossing the handle of his trident lightly from palm to palm. The tines are curved and sharp, with a wicked serrated point in the center. The golden staff laces with curling white detail, the spiraled shell crest etched in the steel. I eye it with longing. It’s the prettiest weapon I’ve seen, and it’d make a lovely addition to my personal collection. If I had the room.
“Can’t say I’m surprised you have a knife,” he says. “It suits you somehow.”
I should stop him before he learns more of my secrets, before he pushes me to reveal my whole self. But my blood is boiling, and my body screams for a fight. I cannot release it on shadows alone, and lucky or not, the prince is the only one around to volunteer.
“Contact or blood?” I ask, circling him slowly in the sand.
Gripping his trident firmly in his right hand, his legs tense in the tell of a lunge. Before he can connect, I sidestep without breaking my stride. He skitters through the sand.
“Contact,” he growls. “Can’t have the princess asking questions, can we, Wicked?” He rotates the staff again, readjusting his grip on the handle. If he’s not careful, I’ll knock his fancy fork out of thin air.
The prince’s face twists tighter the longer we circle in our silly game. I sneer.
His patience cracks, and he comes for me again. I see it coming before he moves, but I allow him the satisfaction of getting close. I duck swiftly, bending low and coming up under his arms. I slide the flat of my blade against his ribs, nicking a green scale. Blood oozes from the seam.
He rolls his shoulders, ignoring the cut as we dance back apart.
