Defend the Dawn (Defy the Night #2)(44)

Before I learned the truth about Weston Lark, I never saw the prince up close—if I ever saw him at all. But the few times I did see Prince Corrick, I remember that he always looked distant and aloof, his eyes cold and unforgiving. The perfect King’s Justice. The perfect executioner.

The night he caught me sneaking into the palace was the first time I knew him for who he truly was, and I’ll never forget the look of panic and fear and uncertainty that was etched into his features for one brief second, before going cold and hard and unreadable, the truest mask he ever wears.

Those are the same eyes looking at me right now. “Are you sure?” he says to me, and there’s a demand in his tone, a demand backed by concern. “I saw the guard shove him away. You weren’t hurt?”

“No,” I say. “He didn’t hurt me. He was just … just mouthing off. Kilbourne shouldn’t have hit him.” The first small caramel has dissolved, and my stomach already feels better. I take one of the peppermints next.

Corrick watches my action, but he says nothing. I wish I could read his expression.

I hold out the bag. “Would you like one?”

He hesitates, then shakes his head. “No. Thank you.”

The cabin is dim, lit only by an oil lantern hung suspended along the wall. It’s light enough for me to see his tension, the tight set of his shoulders.

I should have waited on the dock.

After a moment, this candy settles my stomach enough for me to take a deep breath, and maybe that eases the tension in the room, because Corrick sighs, too. He runs a hand back through his damp hair, then begins roughly jerking at the buttons of his jacket. Once it’s loose, he shrugs free to toss it over the back of a chair.

“So you’d like this room?” I say to him.

His eyes snap to mine. “What?”

“Captain Blakemore asked me which room I’d like, and I told him I ought to wait for you to choose yours first.”

His eyes narrow the tiniest bit. “Did he.”

Much like his eyes, I can’t read his voice at all. “You’re the King’s Justice. I only thought it appropriate—”

“Lord, Tessa. I don’t care which room I have.”

He’s so uneasy. The worst part is that I don’t know what worries him the most. Leaving his brother? Going to Ostriary? Lochlan? Captain Blakemore?

The ship sways, and my stomach dips, and once again, I stumble. Corrick lightly catches my waist.

“We must be shoving off,” he says.

“Why is everyone else so sure-footed?” I say, aggrieved.

“Oh, I’m not,” he says. “I grabbed hold of you for balance.”

He’s teasing, but his voice is too grave for it to be funny. I swat him on the arm anyway, and he half smiles, but he doesn’t let go of me. A hand lifts to stroke a stray lock of hair back from my cheek.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he says softly. In his tone, I hear a dozen things unsaid: his longing, his hope … his fear. It reminds me of that moment with Harristan in my quarters.

Corrick quietly adds, “Harristan snuck into my carriage for the drive here.”

My eyebrows go up. “He did?”

Corrick nods.

I want to be surprised, but … I’m really not. I’m touched. One of my favorite things about the brothers is their endearing closeness. I wish they would allow others to see it. It’s the most humanizing thing about them.

“He confronted Captain Blakemore and demanded my safe return,” Corrick says. “I thought the guards might have a fit.”

That makes me smile, but it’s fleeting, because I can hear the worry in his voice. “Harristan is afraid.”

I expect Corrick to say something bold, like, The king fears nothing.

He doesn’t. “We all are, Tessa.”

I want to touch him, but I hesitate, because I’m so used to guarding my emotions when I’m with him in public. But we’re alone. We’re out of the palace. What he’s risking—what they’re both risking—is profound. I wonder what the king said to him before watching his brother climb onto a ship to an unknown country. I wonder if I can ask.

Maybe I don’t have to. The emotion is right there in his gaze.

I reach out and put a hand to his cheek.

He takes a breath, then closes his eyes. His hands are still on my waist, but he’s not steadying me anymore—he’s holding me, which is altogether different. Something about it reminds me of our days in the workshop, when we were listening to the sector alarms blare and we were worried about the night patrol.

I sigh and lean into his strength. “I’m glad you’re here, too.”

His eyes open to find mine, and his hands shift, his thumbs skirting along my abdomen. It’s such a tiny movement, but my heart kicks.

I’m not sure if I make a sound or take a breath or if there’s just a spark in the air, but Corrick’s blue eyes seem to darken a shade, and then his mouth is on mine.

At first he’s slow, controlled, gauging my response. After weeks of chaste walks and courtly manners and light kisses at sundown, I nearly melt right into his arms. When I yield to his touch, he grows more sure, his lips chasing mine, and I feel the bare edge of his teeth, then the brush of his tongue. He tastes like peppermint—or maybe I taste like peppermint, sharp and sweet. He pulls me closer, until I’m all but flush against him, and a bolt of warmth shoots through my belly. The only time he’s ever kissed me like this was in the Wilds. In the workshop. He keeps so much of himself hidden that I somehow forgot he could be like this, all wildfire attraction and unbound passion.