Her eyes shine, and she swallows hard. “If I live long enough to see it.” She gives me a sad smile and something in my chest twists at the expression on her face.
Because she doesn’t think that’ll happen.
11
It’s been three days since my walk in the garden with Elsbeth and though we’ve met a few times since then, I haven’t seen either the prince or his stupidly attractive lieutenant. But tonight is the ball, which makes avoiding either of them pretty much impossible.
I honestly don’t get it. If this meeting is as urgent as the crown made it out to be, why would they host a ball first? Shouldn’t the first order of business be to discuss whatever it is the queen called us all out here for?
Leodin says it’s typical of the queen. That she’s so self-important she doesn’t even consider whether any of us have lives, but I don’t think that’s it at all. I suspect she’s doing it on purpose, making us wait for her the same way she did with the prince—to remind us of who has the power.
Leodin says I’m an idiot.
Perhaps my perceived stupidity is why he feels the need to lecture me for the tenth time about what is expected of me at the ball.
“No wine,” he says, stopping his pacing to point an accusing finger at me, before starting up again. “You’ll need to keep your wits about you. Dance, socialize, flirt and try not to be too obvious. You studied your list?”
He’s talking about the list he gave me, detailing the fae he wants me to watch. Surprisingly, our very own Duke, Berezin, is on that list. “Yes. I have their faces and names all memorized. Now, can I please call in Merida? We’re running low on time, and I’ll need at least an hour to get into that dress.” If you can call that scrap of blue satin a dress. It’s beautiful to be sure, but it has no straps or sleeves, and the bust of the corset is so small, my breasts threaten to burst right out of it every time I take a breath.
“Fine, get ready. I expect you to look your best,” he says, wagging a finger at me like I’m three. “I’ll fetch you when it’s time to go.” He’s hardly shut the door behind himself before Merida bustles in, gown in hand, to help me get ready.
Two hours later, I have been primped, painted and plucked to within an inch of my life, but I have to admit, the result is striking. My skin is like porcelain, my lips blood red and plump, almost like I’ve just been kissed. Two delicate silver combs hold the hair out of my face, leaving the rest to hang in soft waves down my back, and this dress… It’s much more revealing than I’m used to, but praise Mother Night and Father Day and all their children gods, I have never felt so beautiful. It accentuates my curves perfectly, pushing my breasts to truly monumental proportions, then nipping in at the waist and hugging my hips before flaring slightly, just above the knees.
“You look lovely,” Merida says.
“Thanks to you,” I reply, twisting in front of the mirror. Yes. I’m admiring myself. I know it’s awful and vain, but gods, I didn’t know I could look like this.
There’s a knock at the door, and Merida scampers over to open it. It’s Leodin, of course, coming to take me to the ball. He gives Merida a curt nod of approval upon seeing me, but that’s all the indication I get that he’s noticed how I look.
“You’re ready, I take it?”
“Two seconds,” I say, finger raised as I rush over to the vanity and pick up the tiny black journal I brought just for this occasion. I slip it into the hidden pocket I sewed into my skirt, along with a pencil. “Now, I’m ready.”
I take Leodin’s arm and walk with him across the hall and down the stairs. He’s wearing a lovely black tailcoat tuxedo with a red bow tie and matching vest. I can’t help but wonder what Aemon will look like in one. They’d have to make it special for him. I can’t imagine his height and obscenely broad shoulders are very common. The gods must have heard my thoughts because the moment we reach the top of the staircase to the foyer, I see Aemon, standing just outside the ballroom doors. It’s as if he was plucked straight out of my imagination. He’s painfully beautiful, like an eclipse I cannot look away from, even though it will sear a permanent Aemon shaped spot in my mind’s eye. The tuxedo was indeed made for him by the way it hugs his chest and arms, accentuating his lean but powerful build. And if I send a silent prayer to the mother that he would turn around so I can see how the trousers cup his behind, who can blame me, really? I want to press myhand to his chest, feel the muscles bunch beneath my fingertips and lower across his stomach and down—Control yourself, Katya.
I tear my gaze away and force myself to look at something else, anything but him. He’s just a pretty male with a poor disposition. Plenty of those to drool over back home.I need to push him from my mind and focus, dammit. But the heart hammering away in my chest isn’t listening and those blasted butterflies in my stomach will not stop. When did this happen? When did I become enthralled by this man? I hardly know him. My attraction is purely physical, yet the way I’m drawn to him—like there's a string tied to my sternum pulling me toward him—it feels like more. I’m obviously delusional. There is no invisible force drawing me to him, and he certainly doesn’t feel the same.
Then, stepping onto the foyer floor, our eyes meet and heat zings through my body like a gods damned wildfire, and the only thought running through my frazzled mind ismine, mine, mine. “Good evening, your highnesses,” Leodin says, and I startle when I notice Prince Troi and Princess Elsbeth standing right in front of me. He’s in his fine soldier’s uniform while Elsbeth wears a matching white silk dress with a bodice that actually covers her breasts and long sleeves. I thought I’d been made to wear this because it’s the fashion here, but now I’m thinking there was another, less appealing purpose to this dress.
I want to slap Leodin for tricking me, but I keep my frustrations to myself. I smile and curtsy and greet them both like the good little sheep I am, even as I feel Aemon’s eyes on me, burning a brand into my cheek with his gaze. Unable to help myself, I chance a look his way and sure enough, he’s watching me.
“Katya, so good to see you again,” the prince says. He gives me a warm smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth, yet all I see is the wolf in sheep’s clothing. He cups my hand between both of his, exactly the same way he did the last time we met, and I have to fight not to recoil at his touch. Again, my gaze flits to Aemon. He’s eyeing our intertwined hands the way someone might a boiled rat.
“It’s good to see you as well, sire and Princess Elsbeth, of course.” Prince Troi turns his head toward Elsbeth, and I use that tiny distraction to slip my hand out from between his before he can start kissing it again. “Lieutenant Aemon,” I say, when he steps away from his place against the wall to greet us. The curtsy I give him is smaller, but much better executed than the last. A bit of hair has fallen across his brow and my hand itches to brush it back, feel the silky strands against my skin. What would he do if I reached up right now and did it?
Too bad I’m too big a coward to try it and find out.
Aemon merely nods before turning his attention to Leodin, behind me. Leodin reaches out to shake Aemon’s hand, but Aemon ignores it, instead folding his arms across his expansive chest and glaring daggers at the other male.
Leodin’s hand slowly falls back to his side. “Is there something you wish to say, sir?”
“There are many things I could say,” he replies. “But I prefer action to words.” He looks back at me, his eyes flitting to where Merida masterfully concealed the bruise on my arm.
Oh gods, did he just threaten Leodin for me? I probably shouldn’t be so thrilled by that, but there’s no denying the warm, fuzzy feeling in my chest. I bob another curtsy and drag Leodin through the massive double doors into the ballroom. The minutewe’re inside, Leodin takes me by the bicep, his grip painfully tight, and directs me toward the buffet set against the east wall. The ballroom is opulent to the extreme. The three outer walls are made up of white columns, framing arched windows that rise at least two stories above our heads. In the central windows, behind the crimson throne, a golden sun depicted in stained glass hangs in the sky, its rays extending across the windows lining the left and right walls. The columns are decorated with golden vines and flowers and cherubs so sweet, you want to bash their chubby little faces in. From the ceiling hangs something like twenty chandeliers, each as wide as my bed in Dom Duje, their crystal shards like long toothed knives daring us to step beneath them. A string quartet is set up in one corner, but has yet to start playing, while in the opposite corner, a couple of bartenders work at breakneck speed to serve the already long line of attendees looking to get blasted.
“I think the lieutenant was threatening me,” Leodin says, snapping my attention back to him.
“Do you think?” I say, playing stupid. “He just seems more the broody sort to me—pretending to always be angry, so nobody notices how sad he really is.” I pulled that response directly from my ass, but hearing it said out loud, it has the ring of truth to it.
