Chapter 35: The Feast
The silence in the War Council Chamber stretched, thin and brittle. Clara stared at the torn vellum, at the ghost of Freir’s dagger strike. Jared’s question hung between them, solid as the table.
They’ll try to get me alone.
The words echoed in her own head, and suddenly the vast, cold room felt like it was breathing, its stone lungs contracting around her. The obsidian walls seemed to lean in. She could smell the dust, the iron, her own fear—a sharp, animal scent. Her breaths came shorter, hitting the back of her throat in little gasps. The grey wool of her gown was a scratchy cage. The phantom sensation of Rylan’s gaze through that latticework wall crawled over her skin like insects.
“Clara.”
Jared’s voice was a low rumble, pulling her back. She blinked, realizing she was gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles bone-white.
“I’m fine,” she lied, the words automatic.
“You’re not.” He pushed back his chair, the sound jarringly loud. He didn’t approach her, just stood there, a mountain of a man blocking her view of the door. “You’re shaking.”
She was. A fine, constant tremor had taken hold of her hands, her shoulders. The aftermath of the confession, of laying her prison bare for them to use as a weapon. She felt flayed. Exposed.
“They’re going to summon me next,” she whispered. “He won’t let this stand. A public audience. He’ll make me kneel before the court and renounce you all. He’ll…” Her voice hitched. “He knows how to make me comply.”
Jared crossed the space in three long strides. He didn’t touch her. He crouched down instead, bringing his eyes level with hers where she sat. His gaze was dark, intense, but there was no pity in it. It was assessing, like he was scanning a battlefield for advantage.
“Listen to me,” he said, his voice gravel-soft. “Kellen’s physician left a tonic. For the shock. It’s in your rooms. Let’s get you there. Now. Before anything else happens.”
She nodded, a stiff, mechanical motion. The idea of moving, of walking back through those corridors where every servant’s eye felt like her brother’s, was monstrous. But staying here, with only the conquered banners for company, was worse.
He offered his arm, not his hand. A formal support. She took it, her fingers feeling terribly small where they rested on the hard curve of his vambrace. He led her to the door, opened it a crack, and scanned the corridor. “Clear.”
The walk was a blur of torch-lit stone and distant echoes. Every footfall echoed. Jared’s presence was a solid wall at her side, his posture radiating a warning so palpable even the palace itself seemed to heed it. They didn’t see a soul until they reached the door to the suite Kellen had commandeered—her suite now, she supposed.
Jared shouldered the door open and guided her inside, locking it behind them with a heavy, final click.
The main room was still, the fire low. The door to the bathing chamber was ajar, steam curling out into the cooler air, carrying the scent of lavender and cedar. Kellen’s physician had evidently prepared it.
“Sit,” Jared said, gesturing to a chair by the hearth. “I’ll find the tonic.”
But she didn’t move toward the chair. She stood rooted in the center of the room, the tremors getting worse, a coldness seeping into her bones that had nothing to do with the chill. The silence here was different. It was waiting. The memory of the viewing room, of all the eyes that had ever been on her without her consent, pressed in. Her skin felt filthy with their looking.
She turned toward the steam.
Without a word, she walked into the bathing chamber. It was a smaller, tile-lined room, dominated by a deep copper tub. The water was full, shimmering in the light of a few sconces. Heat radiated from it, promising oblivion.
She heard Jared’s footsteps halt at the doorway.
“Clara.”
“I need to get clean,” she said, her voice hollow. She fumbled with the ties of her gown, her numb fingers useless against the knots.
A beat of silence. Then his footsteps again, closer. His hands, large and capable, gently pushed hers aside. He didn’t speak. He simply worked at the fastenings, his movements efficient, impersonal. The grey wool peeled away, pooling at her feet. The cool air hit her shift, and she shuddered.
“Can you manage?” he asked, his eyes fixed firmly on the wall above her head.
She nodded, gripping the edge of the tub. The climb was awkward, her limbs clumsy. She sank into the water with a gasp. It was scalding, perfect. She submerged her head, letting the roar of silence fill her ears, trying to drown out the past hour.
When she surfaced, wiping water from her eyes, he was still there. He’d turned his back, giving her a semblance of privacy, but his posture was rigid, tuned to every sound she made. He was guarding. Even here.
The heat began to loosen the cold knot in her chest. The shaking eased, replaced by a deep, fatigued ache. She leaned her head back against the copper rim, closing her eyes. The images returned anyway. The map. The dagger. Kellen’s fingers adjusting her shawl.
“He touched me,” she murmured, the words lost in the steam.
Jared half-turned. “What?”
“Kellen. Before he left. He fixed my shawl. He’s never… he doesn’t touch people. Not like that.” She opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling. “It wasn’t for show. There was no one to perform for.”
Jared was silent for a long moment. He shifted, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, still facing mostly away. “He sees you,” he said finally. “Not the princess. Not the pawn. The strategist in the room. That’s… more valuable to him than anything.”
“And you?” The question was out before she could stop it, born of steam and vulnerability and a desperate need for a real point of connection. “What do you see?”
He didn’t answer. Then he moved. He came to the side of the tub and slowly, deliberately, knelt. The steam curled around his shoulders. He looked at her then, his gaze traveling over her face, the water beading on her skin, the damp hair clinging to her neck. There was no artifice in his look. It was blunt, searching.
“I see someone who’s been alone in a crowded room her whole life,” he said, his voice low. “I see someone who counted guard rotations to stay sane. I see the strongest person in this damned palace.”
Her breath caught. No one had ever said anything like that to her. Ever.
Her hand, of its own volition, lifted from the water. It trembled, but not from fear this time. She reached out and touched the side of his face, her wet fingertips tracing the rigid line of his jaw, the faint scar near his temple. A combat scar. A life lived in the open, with consequences you could see.
He went perfectly still. His eyes darkened.
Then he turned his head, just slightly, and pressed a kiss into her palm. The warmth of his lips against her damp skin was an electric jolt. It traveled up her arm, down her spine.
The door to the main chamber opened.
Neither of them jumped. Jared’s head lifted, his body tensing, but he didn’t move from his place beside her. He was between her and the entrance, a human shield.
Freir stepped into the steam, his beautiful face assessing the scene in an instant. He’d shed his formal jacket. His shirt sleeves were rolled up. A faint, fresh scratch marred the back of one hand. He didn’t smile. His eyes, usually so full of mocking light, were sharp, clear.
“The audience was a farce,” Freir said, his voice cutting through the humid air. “A lot of bluster about treaties and propriety. Your father is spitting nails. Kellen is… handling him.” He leaned against the opposite wall, crossing his arms. His gaze lingered on Jared’s position, on Clara in the water. “I see the retreat went according to plan.”
“She was cold,” Jared said, the words a simple defense.
“I’m not criticizing.” Freir pushed off the wall. He walked to the tub, his movements fluid. He crouched down, mirroring Jared’s pose on the opposite side. The water sloshed as his weight settled. He looked at Clara, his head tilted. “You gave them everything they needed. It was masterful. And it cost you.” It wasn’t a question.
He reached out. Not for her face, but for her hand, which had fallen back to the water. He took it, his fingers sliding between hers underwater, a shock of cool against the heat. His touch was different from Jared’s—lighter, more intentional, a surgeon’s touch. “The cage is still there,” he said, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist. “But the door is open now. And you have three very dangerous men who would rather burn this place to the ground than see you locked back in.”
He brought her hand up, out of the water, and examined it. Then, slowly, he leaned down and pressed his lips to the pulse point on her wrist. A mirror to Jared’s kiss. A claim. A promise.
Clara’s heart hammered against her ribs. The steam, the two of them kneeling beside her, the raw honesty in the room—it was too much, and not enough. It was a different kind of exposure, one she’d never dared imagine.
The outer door opened and closed again. Firm, measured footsteps.
Kellen entered the bathing chamber. He still wore his council clothes, immaculate and severe. He took in the scene: Freir holding her wrist, Jared’s protective crouch, Clara flushed and bare in the copper tub. His icy eyes showed no surprise. Only a weary, settled calculation.
He walked to the tub. He didn’t crouch. He stood above them all, looking down at her. Water dripped from her hair, traced a path over her collarbone, down into the water. He watched it.
“The Crown Prince is on his way here,” Kellen stated, his voice flat. “He’s demanding a ‘family audience’ with his sister. He’s brought six of his personal guard.”
A cold different from before sliced through the water’s heat.
Jared was on his feet in an instant. Freir released her hand, standing smoothly, his playful warmth gone, replaced by a lethal calm.
Clara felt the old fear rise, thick and choking. She started to push herself up, water sluicing from her.
Kellen’s hand came down. Not on her shoulder, but on her cheek. His palm was cool against her heated skin. He applied the slightest pressure, holding her gaze, forcing her to be still.
“No,” he said, the word absolute. “You don’t get to be afraid of him. Not ever again.” He leaned down, his face close to hers. His breath mingled with the steam. “Stay in the water. Let him come.”
He looked at Jared, then at Freir. A silent command passed between them.
“Let’s go,” Kellen said, straightening up. “We’ll receive our… guest… in the outer chamber
“Let’s go,” Kellen said, straightening up. “We’ll receive our… guest… in the outer chamber.”
“No.”
The word was quiet, but it sliced through the steam with startling clarity. All three men froze, their focus snapping back to her.
Clara pushed herself up in the water, sending a wave sloshing against the copper rim. She looked at each of them—Kellen’s calculating ice, Jared’s protective intensity, Freir’s razor-edged calm. The old, familiar fear was still there, a cold echo in her veins. But beneath it, something new was boiling. It was furious. It was defiant. It was hers.
“He’s coming to see me broken,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “He wants to see the cowed little sister, trembling after her daring little stunt in the council room. That’s what he expects to find.”
Jared’s jaw tightened. “He won’t get near you.”
“That’s not the point.” She took a sharp breath, the humid air burning her lungs. Her idea was madness. It was brilliant. It was the only weapon she had that he would never anticipate. “You said to stop being afraid. So I’m not.”
She looked directly at Kellen, who watched her with unnerving stillness.
“Let’s make him listen,” Clara said, the words deliberate, dropping into the quiet room like stones. “He’ll be out there, fuming at the door, hearing everything. Let him hear you all making me feel good. Then you can go face him.”
The silence that followed was profound. The only sound was water dripping from her hair back into the tub.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Freir’s face, first with understanding, then with pure admiration. “Oh, that is vicious.”
Jared blinked, the tactical implications clicking into place. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. A rough sound, almost a laugh, escaped him. “He’ll be incandescent.”
Kellen’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes did. The ice seemed to fracture, revealing a flash of sheer, unadulterated approval. He gave one crisp nod. “A strategic asset. Finally using the battlefield you know.”
He didn’t hesitate. He shrugged out of his formal jacket, letting it fall to the wet tile floor. He loosened the neck of his shirt, his movements economical.
That was all the signal needed.
Jared reached for her first. His big hands slid into the water, finding her waist, and lifted her without effort. Water cascaded from her body as he brought her against him, his clothes soaking through instantly. He didn’t kiss her mouth. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his stubble a delicious scrape against her wet skin. “Make a sound,” he murmured, his voice a vibration against her throat. “Let him hear it.”
She gasped, the sound genuine, as his hands moved over her back.
Freir was there, his clever fingers tracing her spine from the other side. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Louder, darling. For the audience.” Then his mouth was on her shoulder, his teeth grazing the muscle there—not hard, but possessive. A claiming bite.
Clara cried out, arching between them. It wasn’t performance. The heat of them, the stark contrast of rough fabric against her slick skin, the intensity of their combined focus—it obliterated every shadow in the room. She tangled one hand in Jared’s hair, the other gripping Freir’s forearm.
Kellen watched for another moment, his gaze cataloging every reaction. Then he moved. He cupped her face, turning it toward him. His kiss was nothing like the others. It was demanding, controlled, a conquest of its own. It stole her breath and replaced it with his.
When he pulled back, his thumb stroked her lower lip. “Good,” he stated, as if assessing a satisfactory maneuver.
He stepped back, nodding to Jared and Freir. They understood. They shifted their touches, their caresses, becoming deliberately audible. The slap of water, the rasp of breath, the soft, hungry sounds Clara couldn’t suppress if she tried.
Kellen walked to the bathing chamber door. He left it wide open, an invitation for every muffled gasp and moan to travel into the sitting room beyond.
He paused on the threshold, glancing back at the three of them—a tangled, passionate tableau in the steam. His eyes met Clara’s. She was breathless, glowing, powerful.
He gave her that same, slight nod of respect.
Then he turned and strode into the outer chamber, toward the furious knocking that had just begun at the main door. Jared and Freir slowly drew their hands away from her, their touches lingering.
“Stay here,” Jared whispered, his voice thick. “Remember this feeling.”
They left her there, standing in the cooling water, shivering with adrenaline and triumph. She heard the main door open.
She heard her brother’s voice, sharp and imperious, cut off by Kellen’s calm, cold tone.
Clara sank back into the bath, a real smile touching her lips for the first time in years. She listened. She listened to the silence from her brother. A stunned, furious, impotent silence.
Let him hear, she thought, and closed her eyes.