The Queen's Line (Inheritance of Hunger #1) - Kathryn Moon

1

Bryony

“Corinne, if I have to wait another moment to taste you…" Declan's rasp trailed off into an agonized sigh, his fingers gripping the Lady of Henwood Manor's waist like a vise.

Corinne's body arched toward Declan, the refusal on her ripe lips wavering beneath his dark gaze.

"Your Highness, they are arriving."

My brow furrowed, my own fingers as tightly wrapped around the book as the disgraced knight Declan's hands were around his beloved. The air shimmered warmly around me, my heart racing with the passion provided from the page, my core hot and clenching. Out of the right corner of my eyes, my handmaid bounced anxiously on her toes, waiting for me to stir from my window seat in the library. And out of the left corner of my eyes…

I knew perfectly well the men were arriving. Every single, eligible man under fifty in Kimmery would be forcibly encouraged to attend a royal choosing ceremony. I could hear their voices shouting gaily to one another through the crack in the window, could see the dark trail of them just beyond the white jasmine-dressed gate as they gathered for entrance. The peace of my favorite place in the castle—the sight of the gardens out the window and the sea glittering in the horizon—was now marred by the rowdy sounds and bustling bodies of men. It was time for me to face my choosing, and not even my favorite book could delay this moment. All at once, the hint of desire I'd felt moments ago with my reading, vanished.

"The dowager queen is—"

"Yes, Una, I understand," I said with a sigh, and rose from my seat, turning my back on my formerly favorite view and sliding my beloved book into the deep pocket of my dress.

The dowager queen, my grandmother, would be growing impatient if not openly irate with the servants the longer I lingered. I'd already delayed the day of my first choosing for five years. Even my younger sister, Camellia, had taken her pick of men twice, and she'd only been of age for three years.

But how could I choose men when I failed to crave them when face to face? A man might be as perfectly formed as a work of art, but he didn't stir anything in me the way a hero from a book would. I was faulty. Broken in some way.

I followed Una out of the library and through the castle, down to the great hall where the choosing was about to take place. I could've managed the trip alone, certainly, but my grandmother was unlikely to leave me unchaperoned until I was pinned firmly beneath her hand, facing the sea of men I would have to draw lovers from.

I'd been a witness to both of Camellia's ceremonies, my grandmother of the incorrect opinion that watching my younger sister tackle a grown man to the floor and mount his barely erect cock would be some inducement to me to take my own Chosen. Instead, it had only made my own confusion more persistent.

Why could I feel heat and desire and the power of the queen's line—our legendary and potent Hunger—while reading a book, but never when faced with a man in real life? The Hunger was the dominant magic that sustained Kimmery's prosperity and power. Grandmother maintained her own small harem of Chosen but stepped down from sustaining her Hunger a few years ago. It was traditional for the queen's line to have at least two women keeping the Hunger rich and our people happy. If I joined my mother and Camellia, Kimmery might see an even greater golden age. I wanted to be a good queen for my country, wanted my people to be happy and healthy and wealthy.

All I had to do to ensure it was take a group of men to bed and slake my desires on them. Desires I had yet to feel for anyone in real life.

Una paused by the door, returning to her nervous bounce as my steps slowed in my own approach. The great hall was opened up and polished for the occasion, and I winced as I stepped into the room, sunlight catching on a dripping chandelier and casting a blinding ray into my eyes. Male murmurs sounded by the far end of the room, the procession trailing in at a single file, walking toward the platform where I would sit and observe them, making my choices.

My grandmother was there already, tall and imposing with a willowy figure and a stern gaze