Piper blinks. “Her who?”
Draven smiles—sharp, lethal, entertained. “Your mate.”
Piper goes bright pink, averting her gaze quickly.
I growl quietly. “Draven.”
He holds up both hands as if innocent. “I’m only observing.”
A rustling of fabric catches my attention. And I realize a noble behind Piper brushes past too close—deliberately. Testing. I grab the back of the noble’s collar and yank him backward. “Try that again,” I murmur, “and I’ll break your fingers.”
He turns pale gray and scurries away.
Piper hisses under her breath, “Is it this dangerous everywhere here?”
“This?” Draven says, gesturing around with mild amusement. “This is thepolitepart of the evening.”
Piper visibly stops breathing. I step in front of her again, lowering my voice. “You’re safe with me.”
She lifts her chin—a spark of bravery or pure stubbornness. “Good, because I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.”
Draven grins. “Then this will be fun.”
I shoot him a warning look. He only smirks back, delighted.
The Ninth Court fills around us like a storm waiting to break. And Piper Bellamy—glowing, nervous, rebellious—stands at the center of it.
Mymate.
Hell help anyone who thinks they can touch her.
***
The banquet hall unfurls before us like a spell cast for spectacle. Obsidian floors polished to liquid shine. Firelight trapped in crystal globes. A long table set with plates that shift colors depending on who looks at them.
Piper inhales softly. I feel the ripple through our bond—curiosity, nerves, and the smallest thread of awe.
Too many people notice. I position myself closer. Just enough to warn the Court…mine.
Draven falls into step beside her because of course he does. “First time at a Hell banquet?” he asks, voice dripping charm.
Piper shoots him a tight smile. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yes,” Draven and I say at the same time.
She rolls her eyes and mutters something about “overgrown demon men and their commentary,” but she walks straighter. Gods, she doesn’t even realize how her determination glows.
We reach the table just as the herald announces the seating. “By decree of the Ninth King,” the herald booms, “Lady Piper Bellamy shall sit at the right hand of Lord Slade Athalar.”
A susurration spreads across the hall. Piper turns her head toward me, whisper-shouting, “I’m aladynow?!”
“No,” I say. “But they’re calling you one so no one attempts to court you.”
Her cheeks flush. Then quieter, “Is that a thing here?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” She swallows, but doesn’t argue. Good. She takes her place beside me. I move her chair in—too close, but I don’t care.
