Wicked in Your Arms

242 Pages·2016·1.72 MB·English

by  Jordan Sophie

Wicked in Your Arms
Sophie Jordan
Dedication
For my editor, May Chen.
Eight books and counting!
Thank you for being in my corner all these years.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Epilogue
Teaser for Silk Is For Seduction
About the Author
By Sophie Jordan
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
The Royal Palace of Maldania . . .
H
e lived.
This was Sevastian’s sole burning thought as he advanced down the wide
sunlit corridor. Not the blood seeping from the gash in his forehead and dripping
thickly into his eye. Not the fact that he hadn’t slept in days, and even then that
sleep had been fractured and restless with artillery fire ripping deep wounds into
the earth outside his tent. He lived and was not rotting away on a battlefield like
so many of his comrades.
He was alive and breathing and whole.
His booted heels clacked a cold, precise rhythm. He’d ceased to leave a trail
of mud and blood several yards back. Every inch of him was covered in filth,
blood and matter he dared not consider. He would dream nightmares of it later.
He was a wretched sight, his once fine uniform beyond recognition, but he felt
invigorated, victorious.
His footsteps rang out sharply over the marble floor, the same floor his
ancestors had trod generations before him. A ragged breath tripped from his lips.
The same floor his progeny would walk. Now that the war was over, that much
was all but guaranteed. Whether it happened depended upon him. The weight of
this new responsibility settled over him, tightening his shoulders.
His shadow stretched long over the stained-glass windows lining the corridor.
His breath still fell fast from his hard ride to reach here—to be the first one to
tell the king that it was finally over.
He nodded to the master guards standing sentry on either side of the massive
double doors of the king’s bedchamber. Their heels snapped together sharply at
his presence.
He knocked once before entering. The king sat in a high-backed chair before
a floor to ceiling window that overlooked the valley Sevastian had just ridden
hell-bent through to arrive here. In the distance, where the mountains rose
beyond the snow-blanketed valley, dark smoke rose in great plumes, reaching to
the heavens.
The old man looked Sevastian’s way, the tight lines of his face easing
immediately at the sight of him. “You’re alive,” he whispered, his voice cracking
with emotion. Moisture filled his eyes.
Sevastian nodded. Dropping on a knee before his king, he dipped his head
and bowed low. “The kingdom is yours, Your Highness. The enemy is
vanquished. Marsan is dead and the rest of the rebels have surrendered.”
The king’s gnarled hand came down on his head in a fierce caress. “You’ve
prevailed. I knew you would.”
He grimaced, watching as his blood dripped onto the king’s royal robes. Over
the years he hadn’t felt the same conviction. He’d only known that he must
prevail—or die.
He rose to his feet. The king closed his eyes in a weary blink, clearly
grappling with the fact that the bloody ten-year-long rebellion had come to an
end at last. It was a struggle for Sevastian, too. He’d grown to manhood amid
war and death. It was all he knew.
The king seized his hand, his grip surprisingly strong for one in such weak
health. “You know what must be done now. And quickly. This country needs a
bright light as we emerge from the dark. You must give them that. Feed them
hope, the promise of better days to come.”
Sevastian’s throat thickened. “I shall not fail you, Grandfather.”
“Of course you won’t.”
“I know my duty. It shall be done.”
Chapter One
Two months later . . .
“Y
ou mean Miss Hadley?”
At the sound of her name Grier stopped chewing, her mouth stuffed full of
her third frosted biscuit. Or perhaps it was her fourth. The tasty treats were thus
far the highlight of her evening, but hearing her name mentioned with such
ridicule amid titters of laughter turned the food to dust on her tongue.
The voices continued, and she pressed farther back into a column, as if she
could somehow disappear into the plaster. “Well, she is rather . . .” The rest of
their words were lost in a burst of guffaws.
Grier sucked in a deep breath, knowing that whatever the biddies had said
was far from complimentary. She knew this with the same certainty that she
knew they were speaking about her and not her half-sister. Not that she and Cleo
weren’t both a favored subject for the sniggering busybodies of the ton, but
somehow Grier had received the brunt of attention as they went about Town.
She glanced down at herself, quickly assessing. The burgundy gown was the
height of fashion, the color rich and flattering against her dusky complexion. The