Page 28 of Mistake of Magic
I feel his hardness rise beneath me and suppress a gasp. His woodsy scent, his taste—masculine and strong—fill my senses. I melt into the warrior, my aching body surrendering to his control as prickles of what can only be River’s magic caress my skin.
As if in response to that yield, River palms my hips with both hands, pulling me closer still, possessing me, as our hearts thunder together. Hard. Harder still. Until only the need to draw breath pulls us apart.
* * *
My mouth isas sore as the rest of me when River, Coal, and I walk toward the mess hall an hour later. With my first-trial uniform still filled with sand, I’m wearing my normal training outfit—black leather pants, tall boots, and another one of Autumn’s perfectly fitting jewel-toned tunics, this one a rich plum. Cutting my eyes to River, I find his dark hair brushed back into perfect place, his eyes once more an opaque gray.
If a kiss leaves Tye grinning roguishly and Shade quietly pleased, River seems like a male who’s just stepped away from mortal combat, the energy rolling off him intense enough that even Coal gives us a wide berth.
My own body fares little better, my emotions and needs and logical thoughts waging a silent war of their own. Kissing River felt like welcoming an avalanche, the aftershocks of which still make my chest tremble.
Just as we approach the door, Tye and Shade are making their way out. I set an intercept course, but Coal lays a firm hand on my elbow, his eyes unyielding. “Give Shade the rest of the day, mortal,” he says quietly, steering me away. “You aren’t injured, but you are sore and he smells that well enough. He smells River on you too. Adjusting to his instincts is more difficult than you can imagine.”
I sigh but wait until Tye and Shade are out of sight before following River and Coal toward the meat table.
“First Trial,” Malikai’s too-loud voice rings through the hall, his pale eyes on River as he stretches his long legs into the walkway, ankles crossed. His black hair is pulled back in a low bun, accentuating his sharp widow’s peak. “I need my dirty dishes carried off. Trot to it.”
The hall goes silent, except for an errant spoon that rings once against a saucer. My muscles tighten, the tension in the room suddenly thick enough to choke a bear.
Malikai wiggles his ankles expectantly.
With all eyes on him, River turns to the male, looking down at Malikai from his greater height. With River’s broad shoulders and cut jaw, he seems to fill up the hall, the Citadel, the world. A prince, no matter what uniform he wears.
The apple of Malikai’s neck bobs as he swallows, and he raises his chin.
Coal’s hand, which I hadn’t realized was gripping my wrist, tightens further, firm as a shackle.
“Of course,” River says calmly. He bows and strides over to Malikai’s table, picking up a heaping plate of discarded bones and filthy napkins.
Malikai holds up a hand, halting the prince in mid-motion. “On second thought,” the third trial says, the corners of his mouth curling. “I would like the female to tend to me.”
“You are welcome to like anything you want, sir,” River says mildly. “It little means you will get it.”
Malikai’s grin dissolves. “I’ve issued an order, First Trial.” The words are low, the threat in them sending a jolt of fear down my spine.
Plate still in hand, River straightens, his movements too slow and controlled to be safe. I’m not sure what happens to fae who disobey orders from their theoretical superiors, but having glanced at the whipping post outside, I’m not eager to find out. Even with my blood still simmering from the practice arena, the thought of anyone harming my males makes acid crawl up my throat.
“Did you hear me?” Malikai says.
River’s eyes flash dangerously.
“I can take care of dishes as well as the prince of Slait can,” I say. Pulling away from Coal, I stride across the silent dining hall in hopes of unraveling this disaster before tempers spill into fists. River’s muscles are coiled as I take the dirty plate from his hand and carry it over to the counter, where I saw the others dropping their trays for the kitchen staff.
“Damn clumsy of me,” Malikai sings behind my back. “I’ve spilled the wine. Fetch that rag beside you and mop it up, will you, human?”
Right. This game. Taking one of the kitchen towels from the counter, I return to Malikai’s table as carefully as if I were walking through a field of booby traps, lest River and Coal lose their tentative grip on the violence brewing beneath their skin. The others in the hall have stopped even pretending to eat, and now watch the confrontation playing out with the morbid fascination of one watching a rider cling to a rearing horse—simultaneously dismayed and unable to turn away.
I make myself smile at Malikai. A jest, that’s all this is. Bothersome, and perhaps malicious, but a jest nonetheless. Wiping up wine spilled on a table is, after all, hardly the height of humiliation. Laying the towel over the puddle, I watch the rich liquid soak into the white cloth, turning it pink.
Malikai’s hand tips a second glass, this one closer to him.
A harsh intake of breath that I’m sure is Coal’s echoes through the hall, but I just mop up the new mess without comment, humming a tune to myself as I do.
A third glass tips, this time making the wine run off the table and onto Malikai’s lap, soaking his trousers. The male grins, spreading his thighs. “Keep cleaning, human.”
My breath catches. Before I can utter a word, a hand clamps over my wrist and a familiar metallic musk fills my nose.
Coal takes the towel from my hand. “What did you need, exactly, Malikai?” Coal’s voice is very, very soft, his blue eyes brimming with a violence that makes my mouth dry. “I’ll be happy to assist you from here.”
