Page 48 of The Serpent Prince

The maid bowed her head. “No, my lady. I was told you were to wait here for His Highness, and he’d be here when he was ready.”

Whoever had brought it—and Imani had a good guess—wanted to send a message. The message that she was a whore. Probably because the arrogant asshole needed this as much as her, and he hated that fact.

Imani pursed her lips. She snatched her robe and let the thick material settle over her shoulders, warming her slightly. Her breasts were still barely covered, but if that was what he wanted, fine. Kiran would get what he wanted in this instance. If she was honest with herself … she was looking forward to this, too.

It tore her in half thinking about how much she hated Kiran for what he’d done to her, but also how much she relished feeding from him. Hell, she relished just being around him. Such conflicting feelings left her unsettled.

She fidgeted in the sparse nightclothes, but she needed to stay strong. A dress didn’t matter when she had so much to hide. Today, Imani would harden her heart further, shove her deepest secrets as far into the recesses of her mind as she could. While he was bound to silence at whatever he learned, she wouldn’t make accessing anything easy for him.

With the Drasil missing, it was still dangerous. He could still act on the knowledge, even if he didn’t speak of it. Gods, it terrified her to think about him finding out about it.

And the same went for her accessing his secrets, which she was counting on.

Imani was sure he was fortifying his defenses as much as she was. Imani knew he was strong, too—that minuscule amount she’d stolen was unguarded for a moment, but she had no illusions that his guard would be down tonight.

She could slip through, though. She had once before, and she’d do it again.

Right now, it was just past dinner, and she assumed he’d come around midnight to avoid being seen.

Waving the maid away, Imani began pacing and prepared to wait.

Imani woke to darkness. Blinking past a skull-splitting headache, trying and failing to remember how she had fallen asleep, she lay there, prone. Her fire had almost gone out.

Rustling stirred her slightly. Half-asleep, she sat up.

A timepiece on the side table told her it was well past midnight, only hours until dawn.

Fisting her hands in her lap, Imani glowered at the empty room. Then, flopping back down with a growl, she settled in, resigning herself to being awake until morning.

More minutes passed. She heard an owl hooting outside her tent and curled herself into a ball, trying to ignore the ache in her chest that hadn’t abated.

A maid entered to stir her fire and keep her warm for the rest of the night.

Imani’s heart sank.

She waited some more.

Then Imani smelled Kiran—like harsh magic—before she saw him. He always smelled like pepper and smoke. It reminded her of power.

His shadowed form slowly approached the entrance to her tent. Kiran almost entirely filled the doorframe with his height, his hands casually dangling near his wand, always prepared, even if just a flick were enough to level the ground around them.

He merely waved his fingers. The room cleared as the maid scurried away.

Alone with her in the semi-darkness, his green eye glowed like a monster’s. Imani felt an inexplicable warming in her chest, one that left her greatly unsettled. She sat up, her hair cascading from her shoulders to her breasts in wild, untamed waves.

“Where were you?” she rasped, gathering her hair off her face. The cold air tightened her nipples, almost assuredly showing through the thin material. She didn’t bother to cover them.

“None of your concern,” he answered darkly. “I’m here now.”

“I guess all I have to do is wait around for you. Nothing else to do with my time except die of hunger,” she snapped softly as he swirled some liquid in a glass in his hand, his attention fixed on it.

“I guess not. People wait around for me. I am royalty. You”—he speared her with an unreadable look—“are not.”

Seething, Imani wanted to scream her shadows out of her mouth. They simmered and pressed against her skin. Releasing them from inside her chest would release her anger. They wanted out, and she wanted them out, too, as her hunger tore through her. How did he always do this to her? She wanted to punch him and kiss him at the same time.

Kiran set down his wand. He moved to frame her face firmly between both his hands. There was not one bit of affection or gentleness in his hold. “This is how this will go, Imani,” he said quietly, putting his forehead against hers. “You and I will do what we need to ensure we don’t starve. You will do your best to be meek, modest, and, more importantly, quiet. Everyone can hear everything in this camp. Keep your biting mouth shut and be grateful I’m helping you.”

His tone implied there was nothing meek or modest about her. She was inclined to be upset about that, and yet, she knew it was sort of true.