Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(46)

If anything, I should be grateful for this distraction. It’s better than thinking about the alternative, thinking what it means to be Phelia’s daughter. The same blood. The same Channeling gift. The same propensity for darkness?

The door opens, emitting a screech like a field cat in heat. I jump and spin around.

“Britta, I— What . . . what are you wearing?” Cohen’s voice, gravel mucking up his rich tenor, instantly erases my thoughts . . . most of them.

“What are you doing here?” My legs lock. My arms cross over my breasts. Though the shift isn’t exactly see-through, it leaves little to the imagination, and I fear Cohen will find reality lacking. I was frighteningly thin this past winter. I’ve put on some weight, but not curves like Gillian has.

“I—I have to pick a dress.” I jut my chin at the colorful pile.

Cohen steps closer. Hazel eyes dip to my arms, and then the shift’s scooped neckline. He reaches out and runs a finger along the old faint scar above my left breast.

I shiver. “Scrape from the woods.”

He pulls his hand back and rubs his chin, fingers grazing his scar. “I . . . uh, I should leave.”

I quirk my head to the side, noticing his new coat. It matches the uniforms of the royal guard, except his has an arrowhead emblem beside Malam’s stag. Similar to the coat my father had, the sight fills me with pride.

“You look so . . . it’s a nice uniform . . .” I shake my head, wondering why Cohen’s wearing one now when he never wore one before.

“It’s for the king’s Winter Feast Ball. I have to head back to the castle to report, but I wanted to stop here first.”

My cheeks color, but I’m pleased. “Have you come to escort me to the castle?” I’m delighted that he’s our carriage driver.

Cohen clears his throat. “No. I just had to see you.”

“You’ve seen me nearly every day this week.”

“That’s not enough.” The rough texture of his voice shoots fire-tipped arrows through me.

He approaches slowly, reaches for me. His hands grasp my arms, calluses gliding over my skin from elbows up to shoulders. Goose bumps rise in their wake and I shiver. He runs his nose down my cheek, until his lips find the sensitive stretch of skin in the hollow of my neck. He plants a kiss and then taking soft steps with his lips, moves back up around my jaw.

A moan slides out of me.

I fall into him, wanting to wrap myself in his arms. Our bodies line up, his muscular frame undisguised by his coat and the thin fabric of my chemise. When his lips find mine, coaxing them open, I fear the linen I’m wearing is seconds away from igniting. Though I’ve never been drunk on ale or wine, I imagine this is what it’s like. A heady mix of longing curls low in my gut.

I deepen the kiss, winding my arms around his wide shoulders, embracing him in my cottage, where I dream we’ll live out our lives—

Cohen rips himself away. He takes a big breath and shuffles back until his spine hits the door frame.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Gods, Dove, you get me wound so tight.” He shoves a hand through his hair. “Your skin’s so soft. And I . . . We shouldn’t . . . n-not yet . . . I mean, I shouldn’t let us get so . . .”

I laugh a little, feeling shy and still dizzy from his nearness. “So like that?”

“Yeah.”

But why, if it’s what I want too? I was kissing him just as much as he was kissing me.

I snatch a dress off the bed and hold it in front of me, as if I’m checking the size instead of hiding myself and my embarrassment.

He walks back over, his fingers lifting my chin. “Don’t duck your chin. There’s nothing to be embarrassed over.” He can read me so well. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I was taught some things are saved for marriage.”

Escaping his grip, I tip my head to the side. “So, kissing is meant for marriage?”

He rocks back on his heels. “Well, no. But beyond kissing . . . that’s for after you marry.” The way he says you carries weight in a way that makes me want to bury myself beneath the entire pile of dresses. What does he mean by you?

I’m sure I’m overreacting, what with the stress of picking a dress and getting ready to attend the king’s Winter Feast Ball. Still, I echo, “After I marry?”

He nods. The small movement feeds the fear that he doesn’t see the same future.

Cohen turns over one of the dresses; a scowl pushes its way over his relaxed smile. “Fancy lot this is.”

I lift my fingers to my lips, hiding my frustration.

He lets go of the material. “Why so many?”

We’ve already had this conversation. I know this is going to lead to accusations of the king wanting to use me for my powers.

Ignoring the edge in Cohen’s gaze, I hold the dress to myself and grip Cohen’s arm with my free hand. “He pardoned you and gave you back your position. In a sense, he’s given me you. His gifts cannot be all that bad.”

His face softens. Warmth fills his hazel eyes, turning them more golden. “Brought you something . . . I figured since you had to go tonight, it would be more your style.” His smile fades slightly at the mountain of dresses looming beside me. He steps out of the room and returns a moment later with a brown package.