The Rise of Deragon (The Deragon Duology #2)

28

Geneva

N o one batted an eye two weeks ago when Ren and I first walked through the gates of Vesta and set up camp—and no one does so now as he and I careen through the Sacred City’s streets, greeting several of the locals we’ve recognized on our daily walks together.

It seems like the vast majority of people here recognize me as the younger Urovian Duchess. My pictures have been printed in editions of the U. Herald plenty of times. Every birthday and holiday portrait, at minimum, has been distributed for public consumption. But whether my presence here disturbs or offends anyone around us, nobody lets on.

Least of all Ren, who looks at me like I am the source of his unending enthusiasm.

That much is obvious—the thrill. The excitement in this arrangement. The knowledge that I’d go anywhere Ren leads, not because I’m na?ve, but because I trust him. And he trusts himself to lead us well, to keep me safe.

But Saints, the signals are really starting to blur. I’m starting to not distinguish clearly between Ren’s eagerness and the fact that . . . well, a man hasn’t looked at me like this in a very long time. And the frantic fluttering feeling I have in my chest each time he does is one I haven’t felt since I was a teenager.

Since Kurt.

The reminder of his name, his death, and his absence in Pandora and my life makes me sober up instantly. Makes me forget how the twinkle in Ren’s eyes stops me in my tracks and replaces it with a guilt I deserve to live with. Guilt for going along with this husband-and-wife coverup when we’re in public, and guilt for not minding it one bit when we naturally allowed it to permeate our private life. Guilt for sleeping at Ren’s side without hesitation and waiting until he’s deep in sleep to trace my fingers through his hair and breathe in his honey-kissed scent. Guilt for savoring it, committing it to memory while I still can.

Because when I get my hands on my daughter again, when I get to hold her and ensure that she’s safe—and I swear to myself I will, and so does Ren—what then?

I’ll have no choice but to return to Broadcove. To the sister that saw no merits to rescuing my baby girl and the husband I’m starting to see as spineless for backing her. But if Pandora and I return, will Ren stay behind? Or will he—

I don’t allow myself to picture it, to picture anything more than a friendship.

Face it, Geneva. He’s kind and protective, but he’s been running around his whole life, and he doesn’t look like he’s going to get tired of it anytime soon. Don’t start convincing yourself that Ren would settle down with you, let alone while knowing you have a daughter. A grown one. A royal one.

I sigh, not wanting to pity myself. Still, I never thought it would come to this: wondering if poverty in the marshes would’ve been more survivable than the secrecy and lies I’ve been honor-bound to.

Suddenly, I feel Ren’s hand along the side of my face. I twitch at the contact, and in a rapid glance, I see a little girl standing before the both of us, bright flowers picked from one of the overgrown, grass medians. She must’ve handed Ren one, and when I finally stand still, Ren weaves the stem through my hair. He tucks it along the curve of my ear and whispers, “And I thought you couldn’t be more lovely.”

As the child skips off, pleased with her floral offering and giddy over the way I blush in response to Ren’s words, I take it all back. I’d go through it all—the loss, the grief, the hunger, the deceit, the guilt.

I’d do everything all over again just to have this time with Ren Satare, however fleeting.

Before I know it, we’ve made it to our dinner spot. Not to one of the food banks, I realize—which is contrary to our typical routine—but to a bistro with a quaint little patio. It reminds me so much of the street I first met Ren on. I wonder if he picks the spot solely because of the fact, and I try not to meditate on what that could mean in a deeper sense.

There’s an open table settled along the edge of the wrought iron gate that separates dining patrons from the public footpath, and as Ren approaches it, I hold out a hand. “Wait, I forgot my coins back at the—”

“It’s on me, dear,” Ren says in a manner that feels almost melodic. He doesn’t avert his gaze as he says it, either—as if wanting to capture my reaction fully.

I don’t have enough restraint to school my face into neutrality, not after how persistently I’ve buried my feelings ever since I’ve known him. If he looks hard enough, I bet Ren would be able to see the truth there. That every dear and darling and sweetheart has turned into something I wish were real, not just for show and security.

Ren pulls out my chair, scooting me in once I’m settled. I can feel the warmth of his skin radiating onto mine without even touching, and I shift in my seat from the brief distress it floods me with, what it might indicate. I push it away but still etch out a congenial smile at Ren. He mirrors the look on his own face, and I swallow.

I know better than to ask if this is a date, because the question would conflict with the role of the married couple we’re playing. I also know better than to let my mind spiral down a path of questions that are sure to leave me hurting later on— like whether this is his attempt at really dating me, displaying romantic interest that would finally, wondrously, be deemed mutual.

Instead, I ask him, “Have your eye on anything in particular?”

Ren chuckles under his breath. “You. In that dress.”

I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest, even though the neckline is completely innocent. Ren had gone out earlier today to the clothing depot and fetched us some nicer garments for dinner. The technicolor pattern likely traces back to one of the smaller Mosacian lands bordering Vesta, and the oranges and golds pair well with the richness of my brown skin. The silk ties together at the base of my throat before looping around my neck, and I try to banish any thoughts of having Ren’s fingers replace the fabric’s touch. My hair flows faintly through the evening breeze, and I tell myself that I’m tucking a strand behind my ear because of that, not because of my sudden self-consciousness.

It’s just for show, I remind myself. It’s just for safekeeping in case someone listens in on us, or thinks twice about my identity.

Quirking the menu at him in clarification, I say, “I mean to eat.”

“Ah,” he sighs with a quiet sense of happiness. “Well, I’ve eaten my way across the world plenty of times before, so I’d be fine with anything you want to try. I will, however, need a glass of wine.”

“Careful, now. Too much, and you might get carried away when we get back home.”

I hear the unintended flirt in my words, and I fumble for some semblance of clarification in the hopes that I don’t sound like a complete lunatic.

But Ren merely leans in, his golden stubble brushing my jaw. “Is that a warning or a request?”

No part of me balks from his closeness this time—not when I’ve been starving for it. Not after I’ve started preserving every passing glance and casual graze these past weeks. I shiver from the thrill of it all, and Ren catches me in my trance, eyes hazy as they glance beyond him at nothing at all. He pulls back. “Where’s your mind running off to, Geneva?” he murmurs.

I try not to make my gulp so obvious as I bring my gaze back to his own. Saints, looking at him and willing myself not to combust is like staring at the sun. “Nobody’s looking at us.”

“Do you want people to look at us?” His tone is almost comedic.

“It’s not that, I just—” I groan at how desperately the words are flying out of me. “The comment about my outfit. The wine. There’s no need for it, not if no one can hear you flirt with me when you’re this close.”

“They don’t need to hear me,” Ren teases, inching across the table, “when I tell you this.”

The blood in my face darkens in anticipation. He was already so near without crossing a line, our faces already touching . . . and yet, Ren’s here. Impossibly close. One hand crooks my jaw so that I’m forced to stare straight into his eyes, while the other traces the neckline of the dress he picked out for me.

“I look at you every day, Genny, and my senses feel so brilliantly warped. Like I can’t remember how to keep my eyes on the road in front of me rather than on you. Always on you. But looking at you now, with that flower behind your ear and the adorable blush on your cheeks every time I tell you how pretty you are,” Ren says, his smile hinting at something filthy. “Everything about you outright brainwashes me.”

I’m damn near ready to turn my head half an inch and consume Ren in a vicious kiss, when suddenly, a male server approaches us, brandishing a polished bottle of an unidentified alcohol. We both pull away, more for his sake than for ours, and I instantly feel his warmth retreat from me.

“Pardon my intrusion, and good evening. Our staff wished to gift you a bottle of our best mulberry.”

Despite his warm tone, I note the way his eye contact skims over Ren entirely, speaking directly to me. “It’s not every day a Urovian royal wishes to dine in Mosacia Proper.”

I try not to squirm in my seat at his blatant recognition of me.

Ren registers the look on my face, but our server is already in motion before Ren can say anything. “I understand your presence in the city may be out of necessity, but it truly is an honor, Miss Deragon—”

“Satare.”

Only now does he give Ren a proper glance-over. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s Mrs. Satare . Not Miss Deragon,” Ren hisses possessively.

His outburst is a bombshell—one that I fear might get leaked to the U. Herald if our server doesn’t maintain discretion—but more than that, it’s firm. Territorial, even. Worst of all, it makes me cross my legs tighter under the table to keep calm. The sensation sends an electric current through my whole body.

Our server’s assessment concludes with a wide, knowing smile. “My mistake. Would the two of you prefer champagne, then? I take it you’re celebrating away from home.”

“The mulberry sounds lovely, still,” I chime in, knowing that champagne has resulted in me becoming sloppily drunk a few times before. And I want full control of my faculties when Ren elaborates on what he was saying earlier . . . once we get back to our place.

“Of course. I’ll give you both a few minutes to look over the menu. In the meantime—”

Our server goes on his spiel about house specialties, recommended dishes, and that he’ll return with two glasses for our mulberry. We both bid him a warm smile as he departs, and before I can prepare myself, Ren’s hands return to cradle my face. His hair glimmers like gemstones in the light of the setting sun, to the point where it’s almost hard to keep eye contact with him.

“You look like you’re about to jump out of your skin,” Ren starts again.

“What’s happening here?” I blurt. “With us? What is this?”

His responding smile shaves off ten or so years. “This is a date.”

“As what, Ren? Pretend spouses? Friends—”

“Don’t insult me with that word,” he interjects. His tone is serious, but his smile remains, gentling the sentiment. “You and I both know what this is becoming.”

I bite my lip on instinct. “Yeah, but I want to hear you say it.”

It’s not just a request. It’s a prayer—a fervent one. I need this verbal confirmation to keep my head from spinning so relentlessly, to know that this isn’t some crackpot disillusion I’ve created in my brain.

There’s a dark gleam in Ren’s soulful, brown eyes. “How long have you wanted me?”

“What?” I squeak, sounding like a small creature that just got stepped on.

Where the hell is our server with those glasses? I need a drink to hide behind, to drown within.

“How long,” he repeats undeterred, “have you fought against this phantom pull towards me? How long have I been clueless to the fact that you might see even a fraction of worthiness in me the way I’ve been aching for you?”

“Ren—”

My voice gives away the hidden desires of my heart, how I’m dying for him to take what he wants from me—even when that’s nothing like his character. Ren has been nothing but a perfect gentleman. But even with it out in the open like this, Ren tells me, his tone pleading, “How long have you felt this way?”

“Too long,” I rasp. “Long enough to make me feel restless when I’m near you, and borderline senseless apart from you. I don’t know which is worse.”

“Apart,” he whispers, his face deathly serious, now. “Apart from you is infinitely worse.”

I barely manage to choke out the word, “You?”

“I know you touch me when you think I’m asleep.”

The sheer force of my terrified realization is enough to knock the wind out of me.

“I never allowed myself to wonder why, not when my mind could get carried away. I wrote it off as a reminder to myself that you’re a mother. It’s your instinct to nurture, nevermind that you were damn good at it and each touch made my insides writhe. Truth is, though, I can’t find sleep anymore until you do it, Genny—not until you touch me.”

I shiver as Ren’s hands courses through my hair in time with the words touch me , and suddenly, my blood is fire and my veins are smoldering wood. Everything curls inward and charrs beneath my skin. I might just explode.

“But last night, you got careless,” Ren says, a playfulness in his slight admonishing. “I felt you kiss my spine, and that simple touch you thought would go undetected kicked open the gates of my restraint. And now that I know for certain the way you feel about me, it’s time I return the favor.”

My eyes bulge just in time for our server to cut the tension and come around with two wine goblets. I thank him graciously, though my voice comes out hollow. Dry. He scurries off, sensing he’s interrupted something again, and when he’s gone, Ren leans back in his chair, eyeing me with an intensity that is all man and no amusement.

“We’re going to drink wine and enjoy the sunset. You’re going to tell me all the desires of your heart until you’re blue in the face and worried that I’m not listening, even though you’ve always had my undivided attention. And as you do, I’m going to will myself to stay in my chair, to keep from clambering across this table and doing something very indecent in such a public setting. But after we’ve had our food and the sky turns dark, you should know that I have every intention of taking you home, tearing off your dress, and kissing you everywhere you’ll let me. And I won’t be shy about it. Nor will I let you be.”

We haven’t even kissed once , and yet the mental image of what we’ll be up to later . . .

“It’s just been . . . a long time for me,” I say quietly. Physically and emotionally.

“You’re not alone in that,” Ren returns sincerely. “And that doesn’t hinder me.”

Wildly, that was my only holdup—the one, frantic condition that I wanted reassurance on. I don’t need to worry about the years that have passed, or how I may not know what to do with my hands, or that this is the best kind of nervousness I’ve ever experienced.

I just need to trust him. And given the way his pupils dilate, I know in my gut that there’s no way that Ren fakes the tension simmering here.

“All you have to do,” Ren says on what sounds like a groan, like his soul may very well splinter from his bones, “is say yes.”

And then, my breath stalls in my chest.

Only it’s not because of Ren.

No, all my thoughts bottom out as I lay eyes on her— my daughter —roaming the street with a young girl I’ve never seen before.

I almost convince myself I’m seeing things, but then, I hear her laughter clear as day and know it’s her, the sound of it undeniable. Their heads are dipped, attention focused on what looks like two translations of identical textbooks, and while I don’t understand the context of their interaction, it doesn’t matter.

Somehow, Pandora escaped.

She’s here in the sacred city. No one can harm her here, even if she’s recognized.

She’s safe .

Frankly, she’s even more beautiful than she was when I last laid eyes on her. Pandora’s always been lovely, but something about the Mosacian sunset coasting over her skin—skin that appears untouched, unharmed—suits her well. It soothes the ache in my heart.

It wills me to still in my chair, to let Pandora round the corner and disappear.

I will find you again, Pandora. I swear it. You just stay in this city and stay alive until I can get to you again.

I don’t allow myself to feel any shame for the choice I make. I’ll have time to wallow over it and feel selfish when I’m back in Urovia. All I know is . . . my time with Ren is borrowed, and if I just let my daughter slip out of my grasp with no guarantee of her returning to me, I’m going to make it worth my while.

“Yes, Ren,” I answer, and the sense of confidence in this choice—in us —is one I haven’t felt in decades.