Page 43 of City of Secrets and Shadows
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Livia belongs to no one.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” I leaned in, deliberately provocative. “She’s mine. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
For a moment, I thought he might strike me. His hands clenched into fists, his breathing quickened, and I found myself hoping he would. The tension between us had transformed into something electric, dangerous — a current of antagonism charged with something I refused to name.
“You speak of her like property,” he said, his voice tight with controlled rage.
“I speak of her like what she is.” I reached out, straightening the collar of his tunic with deliberate condescension. “Mine to protect. Mine to pleasure. Mine to command.”
His hand caught my wrist in a grip tight enough to bruise. “She will never truly submit to you,” he hissed. “Not Livia. She gives you the illusion of surrender because it serves her purpose.”
The certainty in his voice stirred an uncomfortable doubt. “You sound very sure of that.”
Something shifted in his expression, a fleeting smugness quickly masked. “I know her better than you think.”
An odd suspicion formed in my mind, but I dismissed it. Livia would never lower herself to bed a half-breed, no matter how comely. “You know nothing,” I said, twisting my wrist free of his grip. “Now get out. Livia needs to prepare for the feast.”
Tarshi held my gaze for a long moment, then stepped back with deliberate slowness. “This isn’t finished, Septimus.”
Before I could respond, he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.
I stood motionless in the centre of the room, my arousal undiminished despite the confrontation — or perhaps because of it. The tension between Tarshi and me had always been complex, layered with mutual respect as fighters and deep antipathy as men. Now it had acquired a new dimension, one I refused to acknowledge even to myself.
I told myself the lingering heat in my blood was solely from my encounter with Livia, not from the dangerous proximity of a man I despised. I told myself the slight tremor in my hands was anger, not something more complicated.
Livia was mine now. I had marked her, tasted her, heard her confession from her own lips. Whatever game Tarshi thought he was playing, he had already lost.
I adjusted myself in my trousers, willing my persistent arousal to subside. The feast awaited, and with it, the next phase of our dangerous deception. Tonight, after the obligations were fulfilled and the performances complete, I would return to Livia’s bed and finish what we had started.
And the half-breed would be left with nothing but his hollow honour and the knowledge that, once again, I had taken what he coveted most.
12
The Grand Ballroom of the Imperial Palace stretched before me like a gilded canyon, its vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate mosaics depicting dragons in flight against an azure sky. Golden flame-globes hung in cascading tiers, casting warm light over the assembled nobility. The polished marble floor gleamed like still water, reflecting the movement of silk-draped bodies as they navigated the complex social currents.
At the head of the room, an elevated dais held the High Table where the legates sat in their ceremonial regalia — indigo cloaks fastened with dragon-scale brooches over crisp white tunics. Below them, twelve tables arranged in precise hierarchical order filled the space, each draped in fabric that shimmered with golden thread. The quality of the linens diminished subtly as one's gaze moved outward from the centre, a visual reminder of status that wasn’t lost on anyone present.
I smoothed the folds of my deep red stola, the fine silk cool beneath my fingers. The garment draped from my shoulders in elegant pleats, cinched at my waist with a bronze-clasped belt inlaid with carnelian stones. Bronze cuffs encircled my wrists,etched with protective sigils that complemented the heavy pendant resting against my collarbone — a stylized dragon’s eye that Octavia insisted would mark me as a woman of taste but not excessive wealth. My hair had been arranged in a series of intricate braids woven with thin bronze wire that caught the light when I moved.
The stola felt strange after months in leather armour and years before that in rough slave tunics. Yet there was something undeniably pleasurable about the way the fabric moved with my body, the gentle weight of the jewels against my skin. I’d expected to feel like an impostor in such finery, but instead found myself enjoying the transformation.
Our table — the “outsiders’ table” as I’d quickly come to think of it — stood at the furthest edge of the arrangement. The provincial nobles and representatives of lesser houses who shared it with me wore expressions that mirrored my own carefully constructed mask of polite interest. We were united in our awareness that even the servants approached our table with less frequency and attentiveness than those closer to the centre of power.
I reminded myself that this, too, was part of the trials. The legates watched us from their elevated position, noting alliances formed or rejected, weaknesses revealed in casual conversation. Another arena, different weapons. The thought steadied me, though my mind kept wandering back to what had happened earlier with Septimus.
His hands on my thighs, his mouth — gods, his mouth. After years of tension between us, the dam had finally broken. The memory of his dark eyes looking up at me as he knelt between my legs sent a flush of heat through my body that had nothing to do with the warm ballroom. His possessiveness, the commanding tone that had entered his voice when he promisedto return later... it awakened something in me I hadn’t fully acknowledged before.
“Would you care for more wine, my lady?” A servant appeared at my shoulder, breaking my inappropriate reverie.
“Yes, thank you,” I replied, forcing my thoughts away from Septimus and back to my surroundings.
Had I made a mistake in allowing him so close? The intensity in his eyes had been unmistakable — this wasn’t just physical desire for him. It never had been. The promise of his return tonight both thrilled and terrified me. And then there were his words about Marcus, about sharing me. The thought sent another wave of heat through my body. Marcus with his gentle hands and quiet strength. Septimus with his fierce possessiveness.
But what about Tarshi? The thought of him dimmed my excitement. If Septimus discovered what had happened between Tarshi and me... his hatred of the Talfen ran deep, poisoned by Imperial propaganda. He would try to kill Tarshi — I was certain of it. And Tarshi would defend himself. The potential bloodshed made my stomach twist.
Should I turn Septimus away if he did return to my chambers tonight? The thought brought an immediate pang of disappointment. But was my desire worth risking everything we’d worked for? Worth risking Tarshi’s life?
A stir at the entrance drew my attention, providing welcome distraction from my tumultuous thoughts. Jalend entered the ballroom, later than protocol dictated. His dark blue formal attire marked him instantly as a member of one of the most prestigious academic families, the cut and quality speaking of wealth worn with the casual confidence of someone who’d never known its absence.
