The Broken Ones (The Malediction Trilogy 0.6)(26)
Marc made a soft sound of amusement. “You make it sound far more exciting than it is. Last week, two petitioners argued for an hour over who had proprietary right to a cake recipe.”
I bit down on my laughter.
“Besides, there are other things I’d rather be doing with my time.”
A thrill ran through me. “Such as?”
Before he could answer, one of the petitioners began to wave his hands angrily at the other, and the crowd pressed in for a better view, driving me against Marc.
Like every other aristocrat present, we were both shielded to maintain our personal space. But as our magics brushed together, they sparked like an electric charge, causing several of those around us to frown before returning their attentions to the proceedings. I should have moved, eased aside to give more space, but instead, I held my ground, the feel of my magic pressed up against his eerily similar to the sensation of naked flesh pressed against naked flesh. I waited for Marc to shift away, for the contact to break, but he stood unmoving.
It’s because there isn’t any space to move, I told myself. He doesn’t want to jostle the elderly baroness next to him.
A million other reasons danced through my head, but always I circled back to one: that he wanted to be near me. Because it seemed impossible that I should feel like I stood in the middle of a storm of lightning and that he felt nothing. Impossible that my skin should burn hot and cold, the lights around me seeming to expand and contract with every thud of my heart, and that Marc would be unaffected.
Remember why you’re here, I told myself, but the tumult of emotion coursing through me drowned all logic. All rational thought.
The words of the King, of the petitioners, faded into a dull drone, my ears fixed on the beat of Marc’s heart. A thud thud that seemed faster than circumstances warranted.
You’re imagining things.
The sound of his breathing, which I swore had a ragged edge to it.
Wishful thinking.
But the naysayer in my thoughts did nothing to curb the throb of my own pulse, which seemed to grow more violent and chaotic with each inhale. Each exhale.
Whose magic changed first, I couldn’t have said, but I felt the nature of mine shift and alter to reflect my will, no longer a barrier, but a liquid flow swirling across my skin. Marc’s power poured into it like hot water added to a cooling bath, but infinitely more personal. Like will and thought and desire made tangible.
I bit my lip, terrified that everyone around us knew what we were doing, while at the same time not caring if they did. The world was a blur of light and color and sound, and as I let my eyelids drift shut, I imagined that when I opened them, we would be alone. That he would touch me.
And then he did.
Barely the faintest brush of his fingertips against my skin, but a spark seemed to run all the way through me and down to my toes. I gasped out a breath, then clenched my teeth, certain someone must have noticed, but no one stirred. Including Marc. He remained facing the front of the throne room, but his fingers trailed slowly up my wrist as though following the path of my rapidly pulsing blood, which grew hot beneath his touch. They traced back down again, brushing against my palm, and my hand instinctively linked with his.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But doing so seemed impossible with the soft ache growing in my belly, my skin so sensitive it felt nearly raw, my toes curling in the confines of my shoes. I wanted to drag him away, to find some empty corner of the palace where we could–
The doors to the throne room opened and a curling roil of power washed over the crowd. Marc dropped my hand like he’d been burned, turning with everyone else to watch Tristan stroll up the main aisle to take a place at the rear of the line of petitioners.
Immediately they began to fall over themselves to get out of his way, mutters of “Please go ahead, Your Highness,” reaching my ears even from a distance, and Tristan’s affable declarations of “You are too kind” loud enough to disturb whatever the King was saying to the current petitioner. The commoner in question turned round to find himself face to face with the crown prince, squeaked, “It’s really not important, Your Majesty,” then all but bolted to the rear of the crowd.
“Tristan.” The King shifted on the throne, his mouth drawing into a thin line.
“Father.” Tristan bowed low. “Your Majesty, that is. I suppose, given the circumstances, we ought to be formal.”
“Get on with it.”
Seemingly nonplussed by the King’s sour tone, Tristan nodded. “Of course. Your time is a valuable commodity, Father. Coincidentally, it is valuable commodities which I’d like to discuss. Namely, I wish to petition the crown – you, that is – that the practice of sending miners to the labyrinth for missed quotas be replaced with a punishment that is somewhat less… fatal.”
The effect of his words rippled through the crowd like a tide, exclamations of surprise quickly shifting to whispered conversation as aristocrats and commoners alike fell into groups of their peers, speculating over Tristan’s motivations for such an enormous request. I glanced up at Marc to see his reaction, but he only watched his cousin intently.
“It’s a practice that has long proven an effective means of maintaining production,” the King said. “I see no–”
“Just because it’s an old practice doesn’t make it any less ill-considered,” Tristan interrupted, causing the collective to stir uneasily, everyone wisely concerned about being caught in the crossfire between the two powers. “It’s bad economics.”