Page 37 of The Crowned Fae Queen
Aisha growls in frustration. “I-I can’t think with him in here.”
“Iri, leave.” I pause, pointing toward the cell door.
“Like hell.” His shoulders roll with a laugh. With a small step, he plants his feet firmly in response.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I can’t think when he is gone either.”
“So basically, you can never think?”
Her bottom lip trembles with a strained sob as if she's fighting to hold it in. “I don’t know what's wrong with me. I know we are meant to be together, Iri. I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop wanting you. When you’re near me, my mind becomes a flurry of desire, and when you leave, my thoughts are so broken, it's all I can do not to run back to you.”
Really?Really?
“Is this a fucking sonnet you wrote while you were gone? Goddess, no. I’m done.” Strolling past Iri, I tuck the knife back into its sheath. With my hands empty, I run my fingers over my face, dragging my features down. “Call Mathis, and he can do whatever he pleases with her as long as he gets the information.”
Aisha’s face hardens. Her fingers, safe from my knife, curl back under her palm. Tears well in her eyes even as her lips press into a straight line of defiance. Mathis will break her of that defiance. We will have answers soon.
The walk up the stairs and through the halls is a quiet one. Iri stalks behind me like a silent, grumpy cat. His thoughts screaming inside his head. Not at me, no. His thoughts just bounce around his mind with such ferocity that through the bond, it feels like yelling.
He hates Aisha for everything she has done to his kingdom, the absolute loathing kind of hate, his distaste for her from the get-go a repeated echo. Yet he mourns for her. He feels for her. She was once just the little girl of an advisor that ran about the castle with him, making those awful googly eyes and trying to trap him with a kiss. They were kids then, her flirting innocent and naive. Something had changed between her red-cheeked confessions as a child, their announced, then renounced engagement, and now.
When I first met Aisha, she looked at Iri like a prize to be won. Every gaze was a hungry one. In this prison cell, her gaze was meant to devour him. It is unsettling for both Iri and me.
She wanted what she could never have, and the feeling had become like a drug to her. Aisha is looking for her next hit. It feels more sincere in the way she professed herself to us.
It feels possessive.
11
Coming to a Realization
Syren
My room remains off limits. Iri’s simple yet impressive suite becoming my sole escape from prying eyes. Not that I’m complaining. It comes with quite a few perks, I think, as Iri saunters in. One hand undoes the button of his jacket, the other propping against the back of a chair as he eyes me.
The bottom of my gown looks worse for wear, though admittedly, it gives it quite the badass aesthetic with the dotted layer of filth and flaking blood. It makes me feel like a warrior. For a moment, it makes the world feel smaller, less like I am holding it in the precarious balance of my hands. A warrior is made to serve their king and country. The only task is to stand before them like an unwavering shield. What would I give for my world to be that simple again?
An extra wardrobe has been brought to the room to hold my clothes while I continue my stay in the King's room. The whispers be damned. With my eyes still trained on my husband and his sleek muscular build and suit fitted perfectly on his body, I mosey to the wardrobe. I skim through the gowns.
“Would you wear blue for me?” His voice is a startling rasp over my shoulder, his breath a tickle against my neck.
I would do almost anything for him.
Softly, Iri runs his pointer finger down the curve of my neck. It creates a path over my shoulder until it stops at the zippered back.
“Are you finally going to complete your to-do list?” I whisper.
“If you’ll allow me.” His lips seal like a promise to the top of my shoulder, the sharp points of his teeth grazing the skin like a threat.
Desire peaks at my breasts, then curls with wanting smoky tendrils in my stomach. My lips part. My eyes falling to half-hooded contentment under his coaxing touch.
Beads chime as the zipper travels lower down my back. Cold would normally nip at the exposed skin, but with Iri there, a comfortable heat remains instead. A heap of material piles at my feet.
Strong arms wrap around my abdomen, pulling me tight against his burning body. I balance both hands against the wardrobe. His hands sweep up and down my naked skin, seemingly chasing away any goosebumps from the cold and creating new ones from his tantalizing trails.
One polished boot nudges my legs further apart until I’m standing like a willing and waiting figure X. His seductive touch draws circles down my abdomen to hover for a moment above my panty line.
Then he spins me around. The movement so smooth; in a blink I go from looking at mahogany wood to Iri’s heated attention. His tongue slips over the curve of his bottom lip as I breathe in his features.
