The announcement still rang against the sandstone colonnades. Makhila looked toward Tevish, who stood frozen while his mother beamed with proprietary triumph. Makhila’s temper flared hot and sharp in her ribs. She was not about to step aside while an arranged bride marched in from across the sea. Nirali, standing beside Makhila, offered a wry, almost sympathetic smile. “Well, that complicates things, doesn’t it, *Lord* Vadrun?” Makhila ignored her, her mind already racing. This wasn't about etiquette or diplomacy. This was about survival, about fighting for what she desired. Her temper, usually a flaw, now felt like a sharpened blade. A plan, crude and impulsive, began to form, fueled by a potent cocktail of despair and defiance. She would crash their little tea party. She would make herself so undeniably, outrageously *Makhil* that no highborn maiden would tolerate the sight of him. The Lotus Arbor, framed in black marble and carved fountain basins, smelled faintly of wet stone and mint. The island royal, wrapped in pearl-grey and indigo silks, sat opposite Tevish. Her dark eyes, fringed with long lashes, occasionally flickered toward him with an almost imperceptible hint of appraisal. His mother presided over the silver tea service, radiating quiet satisfaction. Tevish sat stiffly, looking past the arrangements of white lotus. Then, a booming, off-key rendition of a popular drinking song shattered the quiet. “*…and the grog was so fine, he drank a whole barrel, then tumbled down the ravine!*” All heads snapped towards the entrance. Makhila, striding in with a swagger that was distinctly un-lordly, offered a wide, boisterous grin. Her silk tunic, a shade of vibrant saffron, was slightly askew, and her usually impeccably coiffed hair had a single, rebellious strand falling across her forehead. She looked less like a noble lord and more like a brawling tavern patron who had stumbled into the wrong room. “Ah, Tevish, my dear fellow!” Makhila clapped a hand on Tevish’s shoulder, a little too hard, making him wince. “I heard there was a gathering here! And here I thought you’d forgotten your best sparring partner in favor of… well, *tea*.” Her eyes flicked dismissively at Princess Sarita, lingering just long enough to convey a mild offense at her presence. Lady Nalini’s lips thinned. “Lord Vadrun. What a… surprise. We were just enjoying a rather private moment.” “Nonsense, Lady Nalini!” Makhila waved a hand dismissively. “Good friends are always welcome! And these little cakes!” She snatched a delicate almond pastry from a tiered stand, popping the whole thing into her mouth with an audible crunch. Crumbs dusted the corners of her lips. “Exquisite! Far too small for a proper man, of course, but delicious nonetheless!” She grabbed another, then another, devouring them with gusto, her cheeks puffing out. The woman's brows arched at the display, a slight flinch rippling through her posture. “So, your highness, is it?” Makhila wiped her mouth on her wrist. “I hear the Western Isles have dozens of crossings. Must be dreadfully wet for getting about, eh? Smelling of brine all year.” Her guest kept her composure smooth, though her tea cup clinked against its saucer. “Our fleet is quite robust, Lord Vadrun. And the sea offers bountiful trade.” “Bountiful indeed!” Makhila chortled, reaching for yet another pastry. “Speaking of bounty, Tevish, remember that time you tried to ride a wild river boar after a particularly potent batch of river wine? You swore you could wrestle it into submission! Ended up stuck headfirst in a mud pit, squealing like a newborn piglet! Took five of us to pull you out, your face entirely covered in… well, *mud*.” She guffawed, a loud, jarring sound in the refined pavilion. His mother glared with taut fury. The visiting lady looked mortified, staring down into her cup. A faint flush crept up her neck. This was exactly what Makhila wanted. Disgust. Revulsion. An absolute aversion to sharing her life with someone whose closest companion was such a boor. Makhila leaned close to Tevish, speaking loud enough to carry across the tiles. “And you know, Tevish, I hear daughters of the Western Isles are rather frail. Not like us border folk, eh? You’ll have to mind those heavy elbows. Remember when you clipped that groomsman during the harvest bouts? Sent the poor lad sprawling into the hay!” She winked at Tevish, a bold, possessive gleam in her eyes. The young noblewoman set her cup down hard, scraping her seat across the black floor. “Lady Roshak, if you would excuse me. The heat disagrees with me.” She rose, her gaze sweeping over Makhila with undisguised distaste. “Perhaps another time, Lord Roshak.” With a curt nod to her hostess, she walked out into the corridor, her silks rustling sharply. Tevish's mother turned on Makhila, speaking in a low hiss. “Lord Vadrun, you overstep your bounds. That is an insult to a royal guest!” Makhila flashed an unapologetic grin. “Just watching over him, my lady. Wouldn’t want Tevish tied to someone who shies from honest company.” Tevish, who had been silent throughout Makhila’s performance, a strange tension coiling in his frame, suddenly moved. His eyes stayed glued to Makhila, heavy with a silent, simmering fixation. He pushed up from the table, wood scraping stone with a harsh rasp, ignoring his mother entirely. Before Makhila could react, Tevish reached out, his hand closing around her waist with bruising force. He hauled her against him, then, in one swift, astonishing motion, he swung her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing. Makhila let out a startled yelp, finding herself upside down, her saffron tunic falling over her face, the world spinning in a blur of silk and polished stone. “Tevish! What in the Sunstone King’s name are you doing? Put me down, you oaf!” she protested, pounding on his back with a clenched fist. He ignored her, his stride long and purposeful as he carried her past the columns, leaving his mother sputtering in disbelief. Makhila could hear her furious remonstrations fading behind them as Tevish carried her through the manicured gardens, past startled gardeners and gossiping servants, his grip like iron. He didn’t stop until they reached a secluded alcove, hidden by cascading jasmine vines and ancient, gnarled banyan trees. With a grunt, he unceremoniously dropped her onto a low, moss-covered stone bench. Makhila stumbled, regaining her balance, her face flushed with indignation. She glared up at him, ready to unleash a torrent of fiery curses. “You absolute, arrogant brute! What was that for? I was merely protecting your… honor!” she sputtered, adjusting her tunic. She expected a blistering scolding, a lecture on decorum, perhaps even a challenge to a spar to release his frustration. Instead, Tevish stepped close, his features tight and his stare unrelenting. His hand reached out, not to strike, but to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing over her lower lip. His face descended, his breath hot against her skin, smelling faintly of jasmine and the crisp monsoon air. Before she could utter another word, his mouth came down hard on hers, rough and heedless, crushing her protests back down her throat. His lips moved against hers, a whisper torn from his throat. “I don’t care if I’m damned.”

The Jealous Lord