I moved forward, keeping my burned hand turned away as I poured. The pink stream wavered slightly.
His smile grew, so perfectly human I might’ve believed it—if not for the too-sharp canines that glinted when his lips parted. Everything about Henrik was almost perfect: handsome with his dark brown hair framing smooth features, his cultured voice, trustworthy until you noticed how he catalogued every reaction like a collector examining specimens.
Henrik’s silver eyes flicked to myface. “Sleep well?”
“Yes, my lord.”
His knife paused mid-cut. At the other end of the table, Taryn spread jam on her toast.
“The city bells rang three times last night,” Henrik muttered. “There was a disturbance in the merchant quarter.”
My heart hammered.
Taryn sprinkled sugar in her tea. “Another tavern brawl?”
Henrik’s knife scraped against porcelain. “I’m not sure.”
The kettle almost slipped in my sweating hands. I shifted my weight to hide the tremor in my legs as they discussed what might’ve happened. I pictured the jewelry box hidden in the attic. The Arathis would recognize its distinctive engravings. My throat was so dry I couldn’t swallow.
Rheya stood by the window, her knuckles whitening on a serving tray. She was probably thinking the same thing. The stolen goods werein our room.
Henrik watched me, cutting his eggs with that same maddening rhythm. He knew. He had to. This was just a game, letting us squirm before?—
“You look pale,” he said.
I stiffened. “My lord?”
“You’re trembling. Are you feeling ill?”
“No. I’m well.”
“Anxiety ruins the body. Especially for young women. Weakens the constitution.” He held up his knife, gesturing with it. “Whatever’s troubling you, you can tell me.”
Out of all the fae in Skalgard, I trusted him the least.
He beckoned me with two fingers. “Come here. Let me see you properly.”
My legs moved. Threesteps.
His eyes traveled all over my face. “Your heart is racing. What has you so frightened this morning?”
“The Rite.”
He frowned. “Our holiday troubles you?”
“I know it’s sacred, my lord. But the blood…every year, it’s hard to watch.”
“My dear girl.” Henrik chuckled. “You’ve witnessed, what, twenty Rites now? More?”
“Twenty-one.” Since I was four, I watched volunteers bleed out in the Square.
“Twenty-one, and still you don’t understand the beauty.” He shook his head. “Every drop of blood becomes part of the city’s runes. The volunteers don’t just die, they protect us.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He reached out and took my hand, his thumb brushing my palm—right over the burn. I sucked in a breath through my teeth, and every nerve ending screamed. My free hand clenched into a fist behind my back, nails biting crescents into my palm.
Don’t flinch.
