So, instead of sparring, she satisfied herself with moving through different stances and combat patterns until her temper was quelled somewhat and her transitions from one move to the next were as fluid as water. Losing herself in such movements brought peace and centered her. The world ceased to exist.
Sweat pooled beneath her corset, her arms ached, and yet, she carried on. Tempest swung but halted abruptly as she caught sight of a visitor who’d snuck up on her. A visitor that had the attention of the entire barracks.
She moaned softly. Why did he have to intrude on her peace now? She tried to catch her breath, chest heaving, and considered ignoring the observer entirely. But it wasn’t possible. There were consequences to ignoring a king. Tempest sheathed her sword, all the while staring at the ground. Time to face the devil.
Lifting her gaze, she impassively eyed the intimidating figure of King Destin. Disturbing, really. He was splendid, even in a plain white shirt, high-waisted black trousers, and knee-high boots. She was struck by how much younger than his years he looked in such casual clothes. Even in simple garb, he commanded attention.
Destin ran a hand through his auburn hair and beckoned for her to come closer. That rankled her. He called her like she was a blowsy wench. Tempest pressed her lips together and forced herself forward, knowing she couldn’t refuse. She paused just out of reach, a respectable distance. No need to give the gossips of the barracks anything more to blather about. Then there was the fact that, deep down, she was scared Destin would somehow smell betrayal on her.
The king smiled. “Why so far away?” he asked, the picture of politeness. But there was a glint in his eye that told Tempest he thoroughly enjoyed the challenge of putting her on the spot.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she said, bowing slightly. “I thought you would not enjoy the smell of me. Right now, I am soaked in sweat; it is not pleasant.” She’d thrown down the gauntlet. No man enjoyed a smelly woman.
The king threw his head back and laughed, his tan throat exposed. He dropped his head, his golden eyes twinkling with mirth. “Humor me. Come closer, Tempest.”
Damn it. Nothing to be done but obey—to openly defy him would be inadvisable at best—and so she slowly closed the distance between herself and Destin and climbed over the fence. No sooner had her feet touched ground, when he pushed her against a rough wooden post. He brushed a lock of sweat-drenched hair from Tempest’s face.
Destin licked his plush lips. “I’d rather be the one to help you work up a sweat, all things considered,” he said, voice low.
The dirty knave.
On purpose, Tempest misunderstood him. “That could be dangerous for your health, Your Majesty. I’m quite deadly with a blade, as you well know.” She smiled as if she had genuinely misinterpreted the king’s comment, but her ruse was no use. Tempest watched King Destin’s Adam’s apple move as he swallowed, a small smile playing about his lips.
“I am aware,” he murmured. “I like a little risk.”
Her eyes widened as she understood what he intended to do a mere moment before he did it.
The king kissed her.
She wanted nothing more than to recoil, but with the post behind her and everyone’s eyes on them, she had no choice but to put up with the king’s assault. Her stomach twisted, and she focused on the way the wood dug into her spine and pressed into the back of her skull. Her pulse picked up when he pressed his mouth harder against hers and swiped his tongue against her closed lips, evidently wanting her to open to him.
Like hell. Instead, she bit his lower lip. Hard.
Destin jerked and broke the kiss. Her chest brushed his as she tried to catch her breath. A small bit of blood dotted his lip, and bile burned the back of her throat. She’d marked the king. Others had died for such a trespass.
He flicked his tongue against his busted lip, and a slow smile crossed his face, his eyes heating further. Horror churned in her belly. If anything, he looked at her with even more lust than before. What kind of deviant was he? His amber eyes dragged themselves up and down her heaving chest and shaking legs—her weakness was fully on display. Did he enjoy being the one in control? His personality certainly suggested so. She supposed she should not be that surprised, given how many mistresses King Destin was known to have had. His sexual proclivities were not likely to be all that plain.
Not knowing what else to do, Tempest ducked under King Destin’s arms, mumbling, “I have to go.”
She knew the king’s eyes were on her, so Tempest made sure not to run. She kept her steps slow and deliberate, leaving her back uncomfortably exposed. She had barely made it five feet from the man before he called out, “Don’t have too much fun with the rebels.”
Tempest shuddered. Despite what the king had said the day before about having her do anything to infiltrate the Talagan rebels, this felt far more like his actual order.
And it sounded like a threat.
Exhausted, with muscles crying from all the physical exertion and a near-permanent headache coloring her vision, Tempest stalked back to the barracks, thinking that she’d rather sleep the entire day away. She swiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Scrubbing the king’s slobber off of her was top priority.
She missed a step when she spotted an interloper in the barracks. Her lip curled.
Pyre. The Jester. He lay sprawled across her bunk with a lazy grace that spoke of dark nights and silk sheets. Could she not catch a break? First, the king, and, now, the kitsune? Surely, a higher power was conspiring against her.
Tempest’s hand flew to the hilt of her sword entirely on instinct even as she slammed her door shut to protect the two of them from prying eyes. Her brow twitched, the lingering headache on the verge of becoming a full-on migraine simply from looking at Pyre smoking a pipe without a care in the world while he so clearly watched her reaction, with twitching fox ears and amused, golden eyes.
A bloody pipe.
“Just what in the name of Dotae are you doing here?” she hissed, glancing around the empty barracks as if there was someone lurking in the shadows.
“Can’t I miss you?” he crooned.
Seven
Pyre
It had been several years since Pyre had entered the city walls of Dotae through a proper entrance. Nobody knew him there, so he could very well have walked straight through the city gates without much trouble. All he would have had to do was resist the urge to show off, hide his shifter features, and keep his eyes downcast so nobody noticed the shine to his golden irises. But he’d never taken the easy route. It had become a game of sorts, finding new ways to infiltrate Heimserya.
And today was no different.
His reluctance to use the city gates this time around had some relation to his work. Tam was a problem. At one time, the smuggler had been as trustworthy as a smuggler could be, but the man was cagey. Well, cagier than normal. Something wasn’t right. Pyre was determined to figure out what was afoot. Earlier, he’d sauntered into Dotae through the slum quadrant without a problem. So how in the blazes had his men been caught? There hadn’t even been any guards for hours. It had been an easy journey over the ramshackle roofs of the slums.
Even though it had been years since he had been in Dotae, Pyre still knew perfectly well where the Hound barracks was. He traipsed through the city, taking in every sight, sound, and smell. Sewage permeated the air of the slums. The poorer district hadn’t changed since his last visit.