The barest hint of annoyance flickered over his face. “Perhaps you are unaware, but it is inadvisable for husbands and wives to keep secrets from each other. Quite a few marriages have come to grief because of such a thing.”
She nearly took the bait. Nearly screeched at him, I don’t want to marry you, you absolute dolt! However, she remembered what her tutors had said and her grandmother always exemplified, that losing one’s composure was as good as losing an argument. “The betrothal hasn’t even been finalized,” she managed to serenely point out. “But with all this talk of being husband and wife and our garden, I’m glad that you’re excited. That makes one of us, at least.”
“I wouldn’t go as far as to profess myself excited, but I am looking forward to peacefully welcoming the Nenavar Dominion into the Night Empire’s fold.”
“What would the Master of the Shadowforged Legion know of peace?” Talasyn challenged.
“Certainly more than the girl who looks like she would happily strangle me for asking a simple question,” Alaric retorted.
“I don’t—” She stopped, taking another deep, calming breath. At this rate, they would end up coming to blows and the treaty would be as good as null. She decided to change the topic by answering his question. “Civil war broke out when I was a year old,” she said, unable to keep the ice from her tone. “I was supposed to be evacuated to my mother’s homeland—she was the Lightweaver—but something happened. I don’t remember what. I ended up in Sardovia, instead.” She tossed back her head, deciding that it was high time she was the one asking questions. “And how does the heir to the Night Empire ascend to the throne when his father is still alive?”
Alaric didn’t hesitate; his answer clearly practiced. “Regent Gaheris is getting on in years. He elected to take on a less involved approach while he is still capable of enjoying the fruits of his labor.”
Talasyn didn’t believe that for a second—or, rather, she didn’t believe that there wasn’t anything more to it. Before she could quiz him further, though, Alaric suddenly turned himself directly toward her, capturing her in another one of his penetrating stares. His eyes were enigmatic, and as he bent his chin lower, his wavy black hair caught the moons’ glow, a shadow rimmed in silver.
“I was seven when the Nenavarene civil war took place,” he said at last, as mildly as though he were commenting on the state of the weather.
“What does that have to do with anything?” she snapped.
“You’re very young.” The corner of his lip ticked upward, as if he was enjoying a private joke at her expense.
“Perhaps that’s why I keep besting you in combat,” she huffed. “Because you’re old and slow.”
One moment she was standing a couple of feet across from him; the next, she was backed up against the very edge of the pool, one wrong move away from falling into it, and Alaric was all that she could see, the expanse of his broad shoulders, the dark of his pupils wide in the radiant night, the constellation of beauty marks on his pale skin. One of his large hands circled around her to press into the small of her back, holding her upright in a mockery of an embrace, and her own fingers flew to grasp at his shirtfront—a bid for either self-preservation or vengeance, she wasn’t quite sure yet. If she ended up going for a midnight swim, then she was taking him with her.
“Haven’t you learned to respect your elders, my lady?” It was obviously meant as a caustic quip, but his voice was too low. He said it too close to her ear.
“Do you mean to push me into the water, then?” she inquired with as much dignity as she could muster, tightening her grip on his shirt.
“Who said anything about pushing? All I have to do is let you go.” His bare fingers stirred at the base of her spine, the pressure burning and sparking through the fabric of her thin smock that separated her skin from his.
Talasyn couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t that she feared drowning—she doubted that the pool even went up to her neck. No, it was the adrenaline rush, that knife’s edge between staying upright and falling into the cold water, the imposing heat of Alaric’s body against hers. It was the predatory glint in his silver eyes, his husky drawl, the seven moons and the countless stars that she saw over his head when she lifted her chin to glare at him in defiance, despite her precarious position.
“I respect my elders,” she gritted out, “when they act their age—”
Her sentence cut off into a blistering expletive when he abruptly clamped both hands around her waist, hauling her off her feet and then swinging her around to deposit her further away from the pool. The instant she was on solid ground once more, she automatically widened the distance between them, her heart racing at how effortlessly he’d lifted her, as if she weighed nothing more than a feather.
“What are we doing?” Talasyn demanded. “This whole—thing. Surely you’re aware that this is a horrible idea.”
“It is,” Alaric conceded, “but it prevents a war.”
“You know what else would prevent a war? If you left Nenavar alone!”
His jaw hardened. “I cannot do that.”
“The Night Empire already controls all of Sardovia,” she argued. “You have the entire Continent at your disposal—”
“And who on the Continent will respect the might of Kesath once word spreads that we took one look at Nenavar’s forces and turned around?” He was so calm that it was infuriating. “We did not crush the Sardovian Allfold by doing things in half-measure. You should know. You were there.”
I’m going to kill him. She wasn’t so enraged by his flippant remark that some part of her couldn’t marvel at this epiphany. One of these days, I am actually going to kill him. “So you’re saying that it’s all worth marrying me for. Me, Ossinast. Think about it.” Perhaps she could prevail upon their mutual loathing to sway him from this course of action—and if that meant that she sounded as if she was disparaging herself, so be it. “You can’t tell me that I’m anywhere near the kind of person you’d take for a spouse.”
Alaric’s gaze dropped to the pool that he’d almost dunked her in. “I came here to marry the Nenavarene Lachis’ka,” he said with hollow resolution. “That she happens to be you is . . . immaterial. I suggest that you resign yourself to that fact.”
It was honestly a kind of talent, how he knew exactly what to say and how to say it in order to get a rise out of her. “On second thought, your lack of objection to this marriage makes sense,” she jeered. “We’ll finally have the opportunity to study together, as you seemed so keen on.”