The Silver Sparrow

Consequences

Conceited halfblood son of a Shakshi whore, Azram cursed for the twentieth time that evening, inwardly, of course, nobody voiced a bad opinion about the wretched mother and son in the Black Tower without getting themselves on his father's blacklist. If it hadn't been for the public decree made known to every soul in the Tower that everyone on such a list would be promptly executed should any harm come to his Shakshi wife or son, the two of them would have been dead long ago. He would have handled the killing himself and kept the blade as a souvenir.

As things stood, all he could do was to watch them strut about in the Tower, untouchable by all but the salar who happened to enjoy doting on them beyond reason. Whatever he did, however hard he tried, it was always going to be Lasura who got the attention. But being overlooked and humiliated on the road the day before or never being chosen to accompany the salar on a hunt was one thing, having to sit through the banquet held in honor of that arrogant, entitled halfblood son's return that evening was something else.

The bastard had brought back three chicks. Three. Had strode in through the tall, doubled door of the throne room with them wrapped luxuriously in the salar's very own bear pelt robe with nothing but scratches and scraped knees from the climb. The entire room of near hundred influential court officials, in their excitement over the rare birds, had erupted into cheers when their Shakshi prince dropped to his knees before the throne and presented them to the salar.

There had been pride in his father's eyes then despite the cold, expressionless mask he always wore. Pride that had never extended to any son but Lasura in the past seventeen years. Just as those half-formed grins and glances of affection—however brief and discreet—that seemed to have always passed over him and his brothers to rest upon the black-haired, yellow-eyed freak of a boy from the moment he'd been born. His father, the great Salar Muradi of Rasharwi, the most feared man and ruler in the history of the Salasar had picked up the halfblood baby and held it in his arms. Had even smiled holding it, if the tales from the midwives present could be trusted.

Azram had never been touched by his father. Not once. Neither had the other princes.

The choice to keep a distance had been deliberate, this everyone knew. Attachment complicated things when he had to order them executed. It was the secret to his success. His father trusted no one, allowed no weakness or sympathy to cloud his vision. He knew the world at its worst. Expected it. Expected all his sons to try to kill him for the throne.

Except Lasura.

Azram slammed the door opened and strode into his bedchamber, thankful for having reached it before he started voicing those thoughts out loud and get himself thrown off the Tower along with his mothe—

A scent halted his steps the moment he entered. Gardenia and rose. And a hint of something else he happened to know and remember.

He shut the door behind him, latching it carefully before turning back around to observe the surrounding. His ladies in waiting were nowhere to be found.

"Don't worry," a sweet, melodic voice sounded from behind the flowing white curtains that decorated the four-poster bed, "your mother has dismissed the girls. We are alone."

His memory hadn't been wrong, after all, Azram congratulated himself, neither had his prediction about this surprise visit, apparently. He knew exactly who this was. Had been counting down the hours for when she would appear again in his bedchamber since the return of his father.

He took his time to cross over to the bed, a smile playing about his lips. "What's the matter?" A breeze rushed in, parting open the curtain to reveal the tall, voluptuous figure behind it. "My old man wasn't good enough for you?"

Amelia turned on her side, leaning her weight on an elbow to gaze at him with practiced laziness. The sheer Makena silk nightgown wrapped around the small waist and the rounded hips with her new position, begging to be touched. She kept her head tilted back, allowing an unobstructed view of the gown's plunging neckline that showcased the two firm, flawless breasts he had come to know by heart and enjoyed immensely. The sight of them could always make him hard, knowing what their owner could deliver beyond the perfection of her figure and youth. Amelia knew this, of course, and also knew exactly how to put herself on display to bring about such an effect.

She fluttered her eyelids and smiled innocently up at him, "I liked the son. Wanted to try the father. Can you blame me?"

Of course, you did, you spoiled, overprivileged, back-stabbing bitch.

Azram paused to stand by the bed, looking down at her with a mask of disinterest. "Of course not," he said running his gaze up and down her form and found easily what he was searching for.

"He's a handsome man, still very much in his prime." Placing a hand gently under her chin, he tilted her face up a little, exposing the long, elegant neck for a better view. "With all that power, you thought you could take the shortcut, get what you wanted without having to waste your time with the son plotting and scheming your way up, didn't you, Amelia?" Trailing his hand down her throat, he paused just above the collarbone where the raw, red marks still lingered. "That didn't work out too well for you, did it?"

Amelia pursed her lips at that and slapped his hand away. In her eyes he could see shame, disappointment, and anger being tossed together and rolled into something else that was going to benefit him greatly.

It wasn't really a surprise. He'd seen it coming the moment she'd laid eyes upon his father, had seen the shift in alliances as clear as the blush on her cheeks that ran down to her breasts. Amelia was supposed to be his eyes and ears, hopefully an influence if she could somehow grip the salar's attention with her youth and sexuality. Instead, the plan had backfired and his ticket to the throne had decided to jump ship for an easy way out and possibly the thrill of being with a more experienced, older man.

A foolish mistake, that, Azram grinned as he lowered himself down to the bed, drinking in the bruises on her neck and arm like a fine Samarran wine as he did.

"Oh come now, Amelia," he said with exaggerated sympathy, registering the pout that was still there as he brought her arm to his lips and planted a kiss on the bruise. "Don't give me that look. Unlike my father, I happen to be a very, very understanding man. Is that not why you're here?"

He wasn't, really, but their relationship had never been one that called for loyalty from the start. She knew what she was getting out of it, and so did he. They also knew how fragile the alliance was, in the case that a bigger fish came along.

Amelia shifted her weight, angled her body more toward him and raised her chin a little. "I'm not here for an understanding man," she said, lifting her leg up to allow the silk to fall off, revealing a more than generous view of her thigh. "I'm here," she moved and positioned her foot a mere inch above the hardness between his legs, toying with the idea of contact, "for a man whose balls are big enough to take what he wants, when he wants it." And then she delivered, deliberate and precise, the pressure from her foot that sent him grinding his teeth to hold back a groan. "Are you that man, Azram?"

He sucked in a breath, overwhelmed by the pain in his groin and the turning of his fortune. "Of course," he said, trailing a hand up her calf, pausing on the inside of her thigh. "What do you have in mind, my lady?"

Amelia tucked back the ebony strands of her hair and pushed herself up. Poised like a goddess on her knees, she slipped the gold chains that held the gown off her shoulders, one after the other, revealing the full, shapely breasts that sprang free from the confining garment. He reached for them, fondling the stiff peaks of her nipples as she settled herself onto his lap, wrapping her legs around him. Just before he could capture and taste those lips, Amelia slipped her hands behind his head, holding him back, forcing him to look at her. And there, in her steady, bottomless dark eyes he saw the true extent of his father's mistake and the irreversible, unforgivable damage that sent a shiver down his spine.

"I want him dead, Azram," she said. "Him and his Shakshi whore before the next summer is over."

***