He knelt at my feet, fixing the full, shimmering skirts. His dark head was bent before me, and it was such a strangely domestic moment—him fixing my skirts. I almost put my hand in his hair, curious to feel what it would be like.
He straightened, looking too tall and handsome in his dark uniform, embroidered with purple.
“Remember the ruse,” he told me. “Pretend you find me bearable.”
“You’re going to make me as good of a liar as you are.”
His answering smile was wide and unrestrained.
“Tonight will be terrible,” I reminded myself.
“Yes.” He offered me his arm. “But we’ll have each other.”
Forty-Three
Clan Bismyth arrived at the queen’s castle in force.
That was the way it felt, as if we were untouchable when Fieran and I walked at the front of this formation of warriors in their fine gowns and tunics, all of them perfect and untouchable. Dairen had winked at me as he took his place.
Asrael leaned in and whispered, “This is where I struggle the most. I’d rather face something toothy.”
The confession had been so surprising coming from always-cool Asrael. I whispered back, “Steady heart.”
Somehow I didn’t feel as nervous about the Trials knowing Az hated Fae Court functions too.
I would have felt overwhelmed when we entered the towering gates of the castle if not for them. But even though they were not my clan, it felt as if I were walking at the front of a pack of wolves.
The ballroom was carved from crystal, its domed ceiling open to the stars and the shimmering colors that moved across the sky. Low Fae moved through the room, including several satyrs moving with startling grace on goats’ legs as they carried trays. I jerked my gaze away, feeling like an ignorant peasant for staring; low Fae stayed away from the mortal villages for reasons they left out of our history books.
Shifters from other clans in their colors stood in groups, drinking Fae wine; the room was already full of black-clad unclaimed shifters. Would Fear have let me wear that purple dress knowing it would’ve broken a rule I hadn’t known—wearing his colors before I had any right to do so?
Fieran took my hand, his fingers twining with mine. I cast a quick glance at him. “Last time you held my hand, the night ended badly.”
“I loved our night together,” he disagreed.
“You werestabbed.”
“I always know I’m risking a stabbing when I touch you. It’s worth it.”
I scoffed.
One figure wore their black cloak, the hood of which looked strangely misshapen. Then he turned, and Ensmeth’s dark glare met my gaze. The effect was somewhat muted by the humor when he was dressed for a snowstorm in the midst of a ball.
I stared at him brazenly, trying to figure out why. His face was shadowed by the cloak—no, bruised.
Ensmeth had been beaten to shit. Then I caught a glint of gold gleaming under the hood, and I pulled my hand from Fieran’s to cross to Ensmeth.
“What happened to you?” I demanded.
Ensmeth stared at me sullenly. “Nothing.”
His cheek and eye were bruised and swollen, his lip split. I reached up to grab his hood and yanked it down. His eyes blazed, but then his attention flickered to someone behind me, and he folded his hands in front of him, his muscles rippling with the effort of restraint.
He wore a crown. He didn’twearit, exactly; it was enmeshed with his head, a golden circle growing out of one temple like a horn and wrapping rakishly around the top of his head. The gold wound in and out of his hair, as if it had melded into his being.
Fieran sauntered after me. I knew he was there even before I turned and raised my eyebrows at him.
Fieran spread his hands in an innocent expression. “Magic can do strange things. I’m sure it will come off eventually…when he’s learned not to be the king of the assholes.”
