A moment passed, and his fingers wrapped around hers. Hope soared in her chest until his upper lip curled, revealing the sharpened points of his canines. His golden eyes were cold and hard.
“Pyre—”
“How did he get to you?” he asked, voice steely. He tightened his grip on Tempest’s fingers until the pressure hurt.
She met his hard stare with one of her own. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Was it bribery?” he pressed. “A threat?” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a familiar ruby necklace. She was sure it came from the box of jewels King Destin had given her—the ones that were supposed to be stored safely in her room. He shook his head. “I didn’t want to believe Nyx when she said she’d found these in your possession.” He chuckled, squeezing the necklace. “Are jewels—mere rocks—worth selling out those who want to see Destin off the throne?”
Tempest tore her hand from his and suffered a flash of pain as his claws scoured her palm. “He has not bribed or threatened me with anything,” she retorted, feeling her own anger rising. How dare he? The choice to marry the monster king hadn’t been a snap decision. It had been long and thought out. Even thinking about it now made her sick. “The jewels were a betrothal gift. I brought them here to use them for my own purpose.”
“Which is?”
“To thwart the king! You know damned well that your way isn’t the only way to bring change,” Tempest retorted. “You must have heard what people have been saying within the palace walls. There are more than a few of your followers who accept your plans because nobody else has given them a less violent option.” She lifted her chin. “We’re going to give them one. I’m going to give them one.”
He scoffed. “What, by whoring yourself out?”
Her hand flew through the air, and her palm connected with his cheek. He rubbed his jaw but said nothing. Bastard. Trembling, she took a step closer to the kitsune, hurt raging through her. Every interaction with the man repeated itself—bicker, flirt, grow close, insult one another, fight, repeat. She was done with it.
“How dare you?” she whispered, so angry she couldn’t scream. “You know nothing about me. You know—”
“Not meaning to interrupt,” came a silken, slithering voice. Damien.
Pyre growled, shooting a baleful look toward the doors. Tempest glared at his profile. Her chest clenched. She pressed her lips together, worried the pressure behind her eyes would manifest into ugly tears. Her uncles were right. The heart was traitorous. One could only trust their head and their kin.
“The gathering has begun, Pyre,” Damien said.
She swallowed down her pain and faced the ballroom. Damien stood in the doorway, light haloing his form. The dragon king took another step onto the balcony, and paused, his gaze taking her in. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, and she wiped it away, embarrassed. Damien’s expression darkened.
“What have you done to her, Fox?” he hissed.
“It’s nothing,” Tempest rushed out, as the Jester glanced back at her. She avoided his gaze and stepped toward the dragon. “What do you need—”
The ground bucked, and she stumbled as explosions filled the air. Where had those come from? She ducked, placing her hands over her ears. Screams from the hall echoed in the stone cavern. Nyx burst from the crowd, her lush, black, velvet dress trailing behind her as she ran onto the balcony.
“What’s happening?” Temp gasped.
“War, Tempest,” Nyx said, out of breath.
“Looks like you have to pick a side, Hound.” Pyre chuckled, the sound bitter. He smirked at her. “So, what will you do?”
War. The word rattled around in her head.
The time for plans was gone. She needed to get to the battle now. Tempest grabbed handfuls of her skirt and sprinted past Damien and Nyx. Sweat broke out across her forehead as she pressed through the crush of savage and fearful people. It was like swimming against the current. Someone stepped on the hem of her dress, and she cursed. Savagely, she ripped the skirt and continued toward her room.
By some miracle, she made it to her chamber, wasting no time in ripping off the beautiful dress that had cast a spell on her. She kicked off the dress-boots and yanked at the laces of her dress. They knotted. Tempest tore the dagger from her hip and sliced through what she could. The bodice gaped, and she wiggled it over her hips, left in just her corset and hose.
Hurry.
She kicked off the painted hose and yanked on her familiar, travel-stained trousers, linen shirt, sweater, and finally her cloak. She snatched her satchel, sword, bow, and quiver from beside the bed before rushing out of her room, straight into the arms of—
“Damien,” she said, tilting her head up to lock eyes with him. “Please excuse me. I have to—”
He held a finger to her lips to shush her.
A wicked smile. “Need a ride?”
Twenty-Nine
Tempest
Her teeth chattered as the night wind tugged at her hair. Damien soared through the darkened sky, his approach completely silent. Another flash of light appeared as a ball of fire rose toward the heavens. The center of the fighting.
Her stomach twisted painfully. This was not in the plan. She’d had it all worked out in a plan where war was obsolete. Her fingers tightened on the dragon’s harness, at least Damien had been prepared to carry a human rider this time. She wasn’t ready for war. But was anyone ever prepared for such a thing?
“Are we sure this is a real fight?” Tempest bellowed over the roar of whooshing, freezing air attempting to blast her from her position. She clung tighter to the dragon’s hulking shoulder blades.
He let out a rumble that rolled through Tempest and traveled deep into her bones. She knew he was laughing, which only made her feel sicker.
“What is a real fight, my lovely?” his deep, slithering voice asked.
“As in—is this really the beginning of a war? Or is just a skirmish… something that can be contained and controlled?” Maybe they could still avoid an all-out war. Even if Pyre was prepared, the Hounds would slaughter anyone who came across their paths.
“Almost all fights end in war, you know,” Damien eventually said. His gargantuan wings beat at the air, bringing them ever closer to the lights and explosions.
Screaming reached her ears, and she couldn’t tear her gaze from the fires below. All she could hear was her mother crying for her.
“Tempest?”
She shook her head, trying to focus on the dragon. “I’m sorry. What?”
“It might take a while—years even—between skirmishes—but disagreements between two groups of people always end the same way. It is the way of things.”
It didn’t have to be the way of things. The notion that war was inevitable and that peace was only a result of somebody slaughtering the opposition wasn’t something she necessarily agreed with. What did it solve? If women were in charge, would things be different? Her mind drifted to Nyx. She was level-headed and reasonable compared to the rest of the rebels, yet, even with the power she wielded, she still allowed the Jester to torture the shifters. Maybe it didn’t matter. A person’s worth was determined by their heart, not their gender.