Free Summerfall by Claire Legrand Page A

Rinka had to hide a smile. “Oh?”
    “We don’t tell anyone.” Alban took her hands, his eyes soft.
    “Oh, that’s brilliant.”
    “I’m serious. Maybe it’s not about showing off our love to everyone—at least not yet. You’re right that disregarding everything else, flouting the taboo, whether it’s antiquated superstition or not, would incense many. But Rinka, you said it yourself: Faeries don’t believe in obstructing passions, and I’ve done just that for far too long now—not just with you, but with everything. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of pretending everything in my life.”
    “If we are found out, it will ruin everything we’re working for,” she said flatly, trying to distance herself from the idea and failing. Her heart leapt at his words.
    “So we won’t be found out.”
    Leska’s words came back to Rinka. “The queen has many spies.”
    “We’ll be careful.”
    “And I came here to work, to do great things.”
    “And you have done that, and you’ll continue to. Only now you’ll have the help of your king. I’ll have to be careful about that too, of course. It will not go unnoticed if I suddenly become completely responsible.” He laughed, let his gaze fall to their joined hands. “You inspire me, Countess.”
    “And you frustrate me endlessly. This is a horrible idea.”
    “And yet?” His gaze came back to her, hopeful.
    “And yet,” Rinka said, touching his face, tired of ignoring her own heart, “I have never felt this way before, and I don’t want to lose it.”
    What if she never found this again? This fullness, this rightness, this . . . warmth, rising fast in her heart. She could not bear living with that regret. She no longer wanted to fight this. Despite her misgivings, the pull of Alban’s nearness was inexorable.
    She could no longer fight this. She wouldn’t.
    Alban must have felt her relax, for he smiled and smoothed her hair back from her face, and then—a light brushing of his lips against hers; a whisper of skin against skin; a caress of his hands down her throat, down her arms, coming to settle at her waist. He pulled back from her, hardly breathing, and Rinka’s eyes felt heavy. They did not move, held in this moment by the weight of what they had just done.
    And then, impatient, need rising like a tide within her, Rinka let out a soft noise, and the king returned to her—rougher now, desperate. His body pressed her back against the wall, and the stone was hard and cold against her skin, but even that was somehow exhilarating as Alban gathered her up against him, as he groaned her name and kissed her. His hands were hard on her hips, and then they were tangled in her hair, holding her in place as his tongue parted her lips and their kisses grew fevered. Rinka slid her arms around his neck, letting him lift her up, letting him pin her there. When he pulled back to breathe, she gasped against his mouth and let her head tip back against the wall.
    He found her throat, kissed her, nipped her lightly. “Rinka,” he said, his voice changed now—darker, heavier.
    Rinka was floating, she was wild. Her skin tingled, her body arched up to meet his every touch.
    “Can I come to you tonight?”
    And Rinka knew that she should deny him. She should put an end to this. The queen had spies. Leska would be worried; Garen would be livid.
    But . . . together they could build a bridge.
    “Yes,” she whispered, and the bashful smile on Alban’s face made her feel bright as the sun. “Yes, my king. You may.”

8
    I T WAS AS THOUGH a fuse had been lit, and set everything ablaze.
    The king came to her that night. He came to her every night he could. They even met during the day, between appointments, when they were feeling especially daring.
    Sometimes they would be more careful—snatched bits of conversation in seldom-traveled corridors, ciphered messages delivered in progressively elaborate ways. But sometimes they would have no patience for such delays.