“I’m not resorting to fae tricks for bed mates,” she snapped.
He sat up, the muscles in his finely carved torso tightening with the movement as he leaned in until they were nose to nose. “I speak not of fae wiles, old friend, but of female ones.” To punctuate his meaning, he cupped one breast. “He’s a man. You’re a woman. And while I might be reading him wrong, I don’t believe he’s attracted to other men.”
“No.” Tyriel flopped onto her back and flung an arm over her eyes. “Leave it alone, Jaren. I beg you.”
Instead, her former instructor, sometimes lover and always friend continued. “As I thought. So that’s not why you’re hesitant.”
“He’s a bloody hound,” she said when he lifted her arm and bent over to peer into her eyes. “He’ll fuck anything in skirts—or I should say anything with tits. But he doesn’t so much as look my way.”
Trying to hide the hurt would be much harder if Jaren could see her eyes so she sat up and gave him her back.
“Is it your pride that’s wounded or something else?”
She sniffed. “Please.”
“You’ve a damnable lot of pride, even for us, my lady. But methinks there is more to this tale, something you don’t want me knowing.”
Eyes closing, she sank back against him. Why hide it? He already knew. “I—”
She stopped, feeling a vibration in the floorboards. Unless Gordie had rented out a room in the hour they’d been away from the public room, Aryn was back. And the sun had slid down to kiss the horizon, so they had plans to make.
“He’s back,” she said quietly, rising from the bed and moving to the washbasin. She needed a real bath after tussling on the sheets with Jaren, but there wasn’t time for that just yet. She barely had time to freshen up and pull on a fresh chemise and tunic before the door swung open.
Jaren was still lounging on her tumbled bad, black hair a silken tangle over one shoulder and unrepentantly naked.
Aryn barely glanced at him, but he paused in the doorway. “I thought you might want to start making plans.” He waited a beat. “Should I come back later?”
“No.” She tossed him a look over her shoulder. “If you’re not modest, you might as well come in. Jaren has no shame, so you won’t bother him. Jaren, clothing.”
“Of course, my lady.”
She stiffened and shot him a narrow look at the silken, suggestive tone but he had a look of pure innocence on his face when their eyes locked.
After pulling breeches on, she crossed to him while Aryn went to his bed.
“Behave,” she warned, using her father’s tongue.
“Of course, my lady.” Wicked humor lit Jaren’s eyes.
Tyriel bit back a sigh. Whatever mischief had taken hold of him, she didn’t know. But if she tried to rein him in now, it would only make it worse.
Chapter 11
Jealousy, red and ugly, raced through Aryn at the easy interplay between them.
Although he didn’t speak a word of elvish, he had come to know Tyriel’s moods and he saw the amusement and irritation as they both dashed across her pretty face. The other fae? Well, smug male arrogance sounded and looked the same regardless of the language being spoken.
That they had a history was obvious.
Now, the room smelling of woman and sex, he had an even more obvious picture in his mind and the enchanter’s heightened senses only added to the picture forming in Aryn’s mind.
“Why do you tolerate this?” Irian demanded. “Just give me permission, brother of my soul, and I’ll kill the long-ear before the sun rises.”
Yes, Tyriel would appreciate that. Aryn didn’t bother pointing it out to the enchanter.
“There is trouble in the streets,” he said, wrenching his focus to the problem at hand.
Tyriel was instantly alert.
She spun to him, slim fingers still on the lacings of her breeches while an eerie glow lit her eyes. “Is it him?”
“How would I fucking know?” he bit off, temper edging into his words, courtesy of the jealousy he couldn’t control.
The nude elf had been gathering his clothing but now he dropped them, the movement somehow absurdly elegant, as if he practiced letting his clothing fall to the floor for hours daily over a period of years.
Aryn decided maybe the arrogant ass did just that. What else did fae lords have to do with their time when they lived so fucking long?
Jaren had been looking down, but now, he angled his head up slightly, gazing at Aryn through the veil of thick, spiky lashes with eyes that glowed a vivid green, as if a fire burned within.
“You will watch how you speak to her,” he said, his lightly accented words carrying a command.
Aryn felt that down to his very bones.
Irian stirred inside him, the enchanter’s anger flaring. “He uses fae magic.”
Aryn put a hand on Irian’s hilt, felt the clouds in his head clear.
Curling his lip at the elf, he began to draw the blade.
And Tyriel stepped between them, slapping her palm against Jaren’s bare chest with enough force that Jaren should have fallen on his arse.
But the bloody fucker wasn’t human so all he did was go still, body humming with alert readiness, as his eyes burned into Aryn’s.
“Enough,” she warned.
Cursing himself and this weakness, Aryn let go of the blade’s hilt.
“Work your fae magic on me again, elf, and you might be regret it.”
“Oh, might I?” Jaren’s bland smile was almost as insulting as the magic itself had been.
“Aryn, on my people’s behalf, please, I apologize,” Tyriel said, her voice carrying a formality he’d never heard.
“You apologize for me?” Jaren said, breaking the eye contact with Aryn to look at her.
“You used magic on a friend of mine,” Tyriel snapped, each word coated in ice. “I shouldn’t have to apologize for you, you big oaf.”
At that, Jaren rocked back on his heels. Then, with a heavy sigh, he bowed his head, long black hair hanging like a veil around him. “Well, damn me.”
He stooped and rooted through his clothes, closing his hand around something before rising—not bothering to pick up the clothes, either.
Aryn had never considered himself particularly modest but he wished the bastard would clothe himself. Standing here with Tyriel’s lover still naked and smelling of her was…awkward.
“I already offered to kill him for you. You said no.”
Jaren cocked his head, eyes narrowed. “What’s…that?”
Aryn felt Irian withdrawn from him and knew without a doubt the elf had sensed the same thing Tyriel had—the enchanter’s presence.
“What’s what?” Aryn asked politely.
Jaren’s gaze sharpened, but instead of asking questions, he stepped forward, hand outstretched. In it, he held an unsheathed blade, presented hilt first. “For the insult given.”
Puzzled, Aryn eyed the dagger. “Do I get to stab you?”
Jaren’s lips twitched.
Tyriel cleared her throat. “It’s an old custom among the People, Aryn. Jaren’s use of magic against you was an insult—you’re a friend of…mine.”