I glance at him, surprised. It’s the first thing he’s said to me since we sat down that wasn’t a direct response to something I’d said first.
“Just taking it all in,” I reply honestly. “It’s a lot.”
He follows my gaze as it sweeps over the room, taking in the glittering crowd, the impossible architecture of the decorations, the casual display of magic that turns the air itself into art.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “It is.”
There’s something in his tone that makes me look at him more closely. He’s watching the crowd with the same expression I’ve seen on rescue dogs when they’re not sure if the hand reaching for them belongs to a friend or another threat.
“Are you alright?” I ask, because someone needs to, and apparently it’s going to be me.
He turns to look at me, those dark eyes searching my face for something I’m not sure I can give him.
“I will be,” he says finally.
And I realise with startling clarity, that getting him away from the fey court isn’t just something he wants.
It’s something I’m proud to help with.
Chapter three
The banquet is finally drawing to a close. The last course has been served. The music has become louder, and the fey guests are calling out things in their strange language.
I don’t speak a word of Fey, but I can tell they are giving rude and gross suggestions about the wedding night.
The fey may look like elegance incarnate, but they clearly are not. They are strange and cruel and savage.
Or perhaps I’m the asshole for judging them by human standards.
I chug down the last of my sweet-tasting drink. Then, one of the officiants nods at me. I glance at Dyfri, and he takes my hand. Together we stand, fluidly finding our feet as if it was something we rehearsed.
The fey guests erupt into a sea of raucous behaviour. More calling out. Whistling. Banging their drinks against the table.
Dyfri looks completely unfazed. Utterly unruffled. His beautiful face is serenely blank.
I guess he is used to the behaviour of the fey nobles, and the thought of that makes me deeply uncomfortable. As if my skin is itchy and too tight.
I push the feeling aside and try to concentrate on looking as composed as my new husband. Together, we turn and walk hand in hand out of the banquet hall. A dozen security guards surround us. All of them are human. As we walk out of the hall and out into the night air, Dyfri is leaving all of his people behind.
It wouldn’t take long to walk from here to the two-bedroom flat we have been given in Downing Street. A couple of minutes at most. The moon is out and making the frost crunching under our feet all sparkly and silver. It would be a lovely walk, but for our safety, we have to be bundled into a sleek, black car. It’s annoying, but I guess it is my life now. I can no longer stay out of the spotlight. I am no longer the prime minister’s son. I am the human who married a fey prince. A symbol of treaties, and of hope. Or betrayal, depending on your point of view.
The drive takes moments. Nobody says a word. Not me, not Dyfri. Not any of the security team.
The car pulls up outside 10 Downing Street. The door opens on Dyfri’s side. He gets out gracefully, as if he has been getting out of cars his whole life. I flounder after him. He doesn’t take my hand again. Now that there is no one but the security team to see.
We are escorted inside and upstairs to the new, remodelled flat. Dyfri opens the door and strides inside. I scurry after him and shut the door behind us, just as two of the security team take up position in the hallway, hands clasped in front of them. Dark glasses, dark suits and body language that says they are going to be comfortable standing there for hours.
The door clicks. I am alone with Dyfri. My husband.
I swallow and run to the bathroom. Without looking at him. Without saying a word.
In the safety of the bathroom, I stare at my reflection. “You idiot.” I whisper.
I shower quickly. Then I brush my teeth thoroughly, followed by copious sprays of breath freshener. Just in case. Finally, I squirt very expensive cologne all over myself, before pulling on grey, soft-cotton pyjamas.
I take several deep and fortifying breaths, and then I leave the bathroom. Dyfri has his own bathroom, adjacent to the main bedroom. It was a non-negotiable addition to the flat being signed off as an appropriate abode. I’m pretty sure the fey have a thing about cleanliness. And sharing a bathroom is awfully intimate. As well as primitive, if you are used to the luxuries of being a prince.
I tiptoe into the bedroom, and freeze.
