The Crimson Crown Read Free

“Let’s just call it a night.”
    “Please, Your Majesty,” Han persisted. “I love to play the part of the villain. I’m good at it.” His words were light, belied by his razor-honed voice and aggressive posture.
    There was a smattering of applause from Han’s Marisa Pines friends.
    “Well,” Raisa said, her head spinning from too much wine and dancing, “I suppose you look more like the Demon King than I look like Hanalea.”
    This was met with a sharp intake of breath. Raisa looked around, trying to figure out what she’d said wrong. Averill and Elena glowered at Han.
    What? Raisa thought. I’m so tired of the wizard-Demonai feud. I’m tired of Han Alister making my life more complicated than it already is.
    “Fine. If you insist, let’s dance.” Raisa seized Han’s hands, yanking him into the center of the clearing. “I’ll lead,” she said, remembering their dancing lessons at Oden’s Ford.
    After a moment’s hesitation, the drums started up, and the flute. The first part of the dance belonged to Hanalea and the Demon King. Raisa, as Hanalea, danced alone as she dreamed of her wedding. (The clans always conveniently forgot that her intended was a wizard.)
    Han entered the clearing as the Demon King, tiptoeing up behind Hanalea, sneering at the audience as they shouted a warning. He closed his hot hands on Raisa’s shoulders, and she turned, throwing up her hands in mock fright.
    There followed a long pas de deux—the Temptation of Hanalea, in which the Demon King tries to convince the queen to run off with him. Hanalea, her mind clouded by wizardly persuasion, joins in the dance for a time.
    Raisa stretched onto her toes, trying to bring her lips close to Han’s ear. He reciprocated by leaning down toward her.
    “What do you think you’re doing?” Raisa demanded. “Do you have a death wish?”
    “Probably,” Han whispered, his warm breath in her ear. “But this is the only part I’m allowed to play.” And then, loudly, “Come away to my fine palace, where I will seduce you with enchantment.”
    And so they circled the clearing in a sensuous dance, their bodies twining together as the Demon King bent her to his will.
    Han’s hands closed around Raisa’s waist, nearly meeting on either side, and he lifted her, turning, her skirts belling out, the campfire and assembled clanfolk reduced to a smear of color and muddled sound. His face was inches from hers, sweat beading on his upper lip, a faint reddish stubble on his cheeks and chin.
    He’d been drinking—she could smell high country wine on his breath; his cheeks were flushed and his eyes overbright.
    Still, he seemed to know the steps very well. He knew the script, too.
    “I will carry you off to my enchanted bed, where I will have my way with you,” Han cried, his breath coming fast, blue eyes glittering. “I will build you a palace in the air—so bright the sun will refuse to rise.”
    Raisa as Hanalea drooped back against him, temporarily overcome by his wizard charms. His arms tightened around her, and she could feel his hard outline through the fabric and leather between them. His lips brushed her neck—once, twice, three times, kindling little fires each time.
    That was NOT in the script. Around them, the Demonai shifted and muttered.
    “Han!” Raisa hissed, struggling to free herself; but his grip was like iron. “Be careful. The Demonai—”
    “I’m not afraid of the Demonai,” Han growled so only she could hear. “I’m tired of sneaking around like an abbot on the strum.” Han looked over at Nightwalker and smiled. The warrior stood, arms folded, as if he were looking forward to killing the Demon King.
    “I thought you didn’t want anyone to think there was anything between us,” Raisa persisted.
    “Don’t worry. Nightwalker thinks I’m doing this to yank his sensitive Demonai tail.”
    “Don’t you think there’s trouble enough between the two of you as it is? Do you really have to—”
    “I