CHAPTER FOUR
As Tarquin’s hands ran down Mira’s sides, promising more— but never, ever delivering— she idly wondered how he’d found her there. She was in another deserted part of the castle, this one an area that had seemingly housed servants. The rooms were small, the mattresses filled with straw instead of feathers, and the furnishings were plain and purely functional. She already preferred searching here to the other rooms in her corridor, though. Instead of painted portraits, she found scribbled drawings; instead of expensive tomes, a deeply creased letter.
She wasn’t sure how he’d managed to sniff her out, there, in the far-flung reaches of the palace, but she didn’t care, not when his breath was hot on her neck and his hands caressed the small of her back. Lower, she willed him, pressing up against him, catching his lips with hers and demanding with her tongue that he give her more, more than this slow torture that they repeated several times a day without release or an end in sight.
She wanted to fuck him, her virginity be damned, and knew she would if he ever trailed his lips from the hollow of her throat down to her breasts, or if his hands ever descended just a bit more to cup her ass and haul her against him. He wouldn’t, though. He’d brushed off her advances every time she tried to take it further, every time her hand slid in the collar of his shirt so she could feel his bare flesh— just a sliver. But he continued to kiss her like this, to run his lips and hands over every part of her that wasn’t covered in clothing, until she spent time each morning before dressing, considering which gown exposed the most skin.
He pulled away from her abruptly, stopping himself like he always did, when she began to feel his arousal pushing against her. He leaned over her, into her, his forehead pressed to hers. She could scarcely breathe and hardly stand, all because of the need pulsing between her legs, begging to be sated.
He fingered the tips of her black hair, hanging between her breasts. “You always have this up,” he said. “I like it down.”
And then he turned from the room without another word, and disappeared as he always did, leaving her hot and wild with need. She sat on the lumpy mattress and breathed deeply, slowly, regaining control over her body. She hated him, she thought to herself for the millionth time, hated him for always going but craved the way his hands felt on her, the way his mouth opened her up and coaxed out tiny noises laced with need.
She stood again, after a minute, and slipped the treasures she’d found into her pocket. She took a cursory glance around the room before moving on to the next and thought about what a strange, sad place this palace really was. All of these empty rooms, many with still rumpled bed linens, just shut off from use by people who would rather pretend that the palace hadn’t been home to tragedy.
She moved to the next room and took a quick look around, finding a small silver wedding band. She held it in her palm, felt the weight of it and how it became warm from her heat after a moment. She didn’t like it, she decided suddenly, didn’t want it, but here it was, and putting it back and forgetting about it felt… wrong. So she pocketed it, too, and returned to her room.
When her finds were safely stored in her cabinet, she crossed to her bathroom to wash the dust off of her hands. She found herself examining her hair in the mirror—long and dark and straight, the ends curling slightly where Tarquin had touched them. She dried her hands as she watched herself, trying to ignore how obviously swollen her lips were, and then she fetched her scissors and returned to her spot in front of the mirror.
A few minutes later she liked what she saw, if only because she really hated to please anyone. Her hair came just to her chin, now, with a thick fringe across her forehead. It was sloppily done in her haste, clearly something she’d done herself, and she pursed her lips at herself as she decided to venture to the Queen’s rooms and ask for help.
Tarquin stalked along the corridor away from Mira, already hating himself. He didn’t know why he couldn’t keep away, why he couldn’t keep his thoughts from her. Obnoxious, strange, aloof Mira.
Helias was missing. He had been for a month, so Tarquin spent his days with Ingrid, providing her with companionship and protection. They resided in a court full of faces, and it was impossible to know which ones could be trusted, so he stayed alone, save for the Queen. She had needed the company, and he was glad that she’d invited her friends after what had happened at Dragongrove and now with Helias’ disappearance.
He hadn’t expected Mira when he’d responded to his brother’s letters and left his own research abruptly. When the illness had struck, they’d been banished from Arnes and flung to the corners of the world. His father demanded answers and wouldn’t allow any of his sons back until he had an answer for his grief. Tarquin was cast from the only home he’d ever known just days after losing his mate.
Aurelia.
He missed her now as much as he ever had. Missing her had turned into an ache deep in his soul as if a part of it had been carved out and taken from him. Missing indeed. He’d been able to distract himself well enough while he roamed mortal lands, with liquor and anger and women, but being back here, back in the room he’d shared with her, brought all of it back as it had been right when she’d died, right when his soul had been split in two and half had been taken from him.
He didn’t know why Mira seemed to affect him the way she did. She didn’t remind him of Aurelia; they were as different as two people could be. When he’d first seen her, he’d been descending to land at Dragongrove, and she’d stood gaping at him in the rain, not seeming to notice the water dripping down her forehead into her eyes, and he hadn’t been able to help himself but to land in front of her, shift, and sniff her. She’d smelled like he’d thought she would, when he’d first spotted her: smoke and salt and something wild, all hiding underneath the earthy scent of rain.
She clearly wanted him right away. He could see it in the way she gazed at him, smell it when he passed too close to her. He’d wanted her, too, but the guilt ate at him each time he had that thought, and then he’d turn his anger in on himself, hating his weakness and missing his mate.
When she’d arrived at the palace she’d been so like that day he’d first seen her, and he couldn’t help himself as he pulled her in a room and unleashed everything he’d thought about her since he’d met her. She’d responded immediately, pressing against him, asking for more, but he wasn’t in a position to give it and not regret it, so he’d turned and left without a backward glance. She kept wanting more each time he sniffed her out and made her need him, but he’d never pushed past it, and he was afraid of what that would mean. Fucking random women who he would never see again was one thing; fucking pretty Mira who laughed at him often and watched him all the time was something entirely different.
He found the council chambers, where he’d been summoned before he’d searched her out, and Ingrid greeted him with an exhausted smile. They had new information on the king’s whereabouts as a result of the Queen’s new… gifts, and the entire council as well as half the contingent of guards was there in secret, still unable to know which courtiers were trustworthy, working on what they had.
Ingrid rose from her seat and hugged him. It was a strange move for her, something she’d never done before, but when her smile turned into a grin and the fire behind her eyes had been re-lit, he understood the reason for it.
“We know where he is,” she said. “We leave in an hour.”