Octavia stands by the closed door, her body stiff and tall in a black velvet gown, her brown hair pulled back into a twist. “It seems we’ve much to discuss. This way.”
I stand in the center of the feasting hall, my body perfectly still. A knot of emotion forms in my throat. I keep telling myself to walk and my stubborn self keeps ignoring me. An official audience with the King and Queen? Right this very second? I’ve already had a ‘very special’ twenty-four hours as it is.
Lincoln steps up behind me, setting his firm hands on my shoulders. His mouth brushes the shell of my ear. “We can do this.”
I wrap my fingers with Lincoln’s, feeling the warmth of his skin. Yes, we can do this. Together, we open the door and cross the threshold, following Octavia to a massive tent made of black tapestry woven with silver eagles. Tall wooden poles hold the structure upright, each topped with a line of thin golden banners. A guard in black armor stands by the entrance flap.
Octavia wags a finger at him. “No one gets within twenty yards of this place, no matter what.”
“Yes, your Highness.”
The Queen turns to me. “We use this for official audiences.” Flipping about, she disappears into the folds of the tent.
Once Octavia’s gone, Lincoln grips my hand. “Just a minute, Myla.” He pulls me out of earshot of the guard, stopping a few yards from the tent entrance.
I stare into Lincoln’s mismatched eyes, my head tilting to one side. “What’s wrong?”
He gently sets his hand on my shoulder, his thumb rubbing my skin in a soothing motion. “I don’t want you to be surprised. My father may be a little gruff with you.”
I suck in a fast breath. That little factoid was a shocker. Suddenly I’m very happy about the mini-shoulder massage I’m getting. “Why? He doesn’t know me.”
Lincoln smirks. “You’re the greatest warrior in Antrum, everyone knows you.”
I mock-frown. “That’s not what I mean.”
He glances about, searching for the right words to say. “My father’s looking for a reason to give in to Acca.”
Meaning he wants Lincoln to marry Adair…And me out of the way. Oh, he’ll be a little gruff, alright. My upper lip curls. “Do we have to do this?” My voice came out a little whiny there.
Lincoln winds his arm around my back, the other wraps about my shoulder. Drawing me to him, he sets his mouth on mine. Oh, yes. His lips are everything soft, warm, and delicious. We kiss slowly, deeply. The rest of the universe disappears. Lincoln’s hand pushes into the small of my back, then slowly slides around my waist to my belly. My mind goes blank. What was he was asking again? Why wasn’t I saying yes?
Hey now, Myla. Way to think with your hormones.
I break the kiss and do my best to frown. “Is that your way of talking me into this?”
He eyes me with that sly grin. “Yes.” His palm slides up the side of my torso, almost-just-maybe touching the swell of my breast.
Damn, damn, damn. He just talked me into this.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
He kisses the tip of my nose. “You won’t regret it.”
I try to swallow past the knot of emotion that just formed in my throat. “Can I get that in writing?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
I stand inside a large square space filled with sturdy wooden chairs and tables. Iron chests and oriental rugs cover the floor. King Connor sits on a high-back chair in a black tunic, a sheet of parchment in his hand. His white hair hangs neatly to his shoulders. Octavia stands beside him.
The King rises to his feet, his face creasing into a smile as he greets his son. Connor’s basso voice rings out: “Hello, hello!” He lumbers over to Lincoln, wrapping him in a bear hug. It feels like a million years eke by as the King slowly turns to me. I grit my teeth and try to plaster on a smile.
“What’s this?” The King sets his meaty fists on his hips. “I wasn’t informed of any strangers coming to visit.” His voice drips with irritation.
Here it comes. The gruffness.
Lincoln grips my hand. “This is Myla, father. She’s the girl I’ve been telling you about.”
Telling you about? My heart kicks in my chest. Lincoln’s been chatting me up with his parents. My fake grin turns into a real one.
Connor leans back on one heel. “Yes, I remember.” His eyes narrow as he takes me in from head to toe. “You’re the quasi-demon.”
I open my mouth to correct him, but Lincoln gets there first. “Her name is Myla.” His tone has a protective edge. My grin grows wider. His protective side is hot.
The King lumbers back to his table, and then plunks his burly frame into a high-back chair. Octavia slides into the empty seat beside him. Lincoln and I stand a few yards away, hand in hand.
Connor lets out a long breath. “If you’re here, I assume the two of you are in trouble.” The way he says ‘trouble,’ I know he’s thinking one thing: I’m carrying Lincoln’s child.
Anger shoots through my body. Whoa there, asshole! I’m a lot of things. Pregnant isn’t one of them.