“Perhaps.” I have no love for the king of night, and he may well be testing me with these incursions, but something about them is off. They’re too quick, too violent, and don’t carry the mark of the night realm’s soldiers. And I don’t know of a single one who could have left no trace and vanished so quickly after an attack. There’s more at play here, but I can’t quite see it. “We need to gather more information before we can make that charge. For now, I need a bath and a meal.”
“And the nightling?” Tristano asks again.
“Ismine.” I slam my fist on the table, sending a crack shooting through the glass.
“Ancestors.” Tristano whistles, then smirks. “I get it. She’s yours.”
Brock raises a brow at me while Charen seems to have found something infinitely interesting in his wine glass.
I look at my fist as if it belongs to someone else. This isn’t like me. I’m not quick to anger like Bladin or explosive like Tristano. How has that changeling managed to get under my skin? I don’t understand it, but I know for certain that if any male even breathes wrong in her direction, there’s a good chance I will burn them to ash before giving it a second thought. I’m out of control.
“Bathe and relax, my lord. We’ll continue working on ways to discover who’s behind the threat,” Brock says it gently, as if I need to be handled.
Given my outburst, perhaps I do. “See you at dinner.” I turn and stride to the door. “And have someone repair the table.”
“Of course, my lord,” Brock calls as I stalk to my room, strip down, and enter the pouring shower. The muck of the road falls away and I lean back and take a deep breath. I should be thinking about those who lost their lives on the edges of my realm. Instead, my mind goes to the nightling, to her fair skin and flaming hair, the way her eyes follow me when she thinks I’m not looking. And, like so many of my dreams, I return to the feel of her naked skin against me as I held her close after the run-in with Malnaloch. The softness of her, the lure of her midnight scent—they haunt me.
Before I even realize it, I’m stroking myself, my hand gripping my hard flesh as I imagine my nightling beneath me, her eyes holding mine as I plunge inside her wet heat. Will she moan and scratch or give me pleasures untold with her delicious mouth? I climax hard and sudden, spurting onto the white stone as I groan.
Leaning one arm against the wall, I rest my forehead on it and let the water pour. This momentary release has done nothing to calm my desire for her, and now I realize what a fool I was to make that promise to wait before claiming her. Or perhaps, she was the fool, because I’m perilously close to obsession. She may become my only thought in short order, even though I have enough worries to keep my mind whirring at all hours.
My consort is supposed to ease me. At this rate, she’ll be easing me frequently before the week is out.
15
Emma
“I’m a dolly.” I look at my gown in the mirror. It’s finer than anything I’ve ever touched and also more revealing. The day realm’s fashions are much more forward than anything back home. Low necklines, high slits in the flowing skirts, and thin straps or none at all—these outfits are a nightmare.
“You are as you are intended.” Matron Lucidia gives me an approving look, then adds more rouge to my cheeks.
“I’m going to look like a jester.” I sneeze the pink powder.
She frowns. “You’re so pale, any color I put on you is garish.” She grabs her apron, spits on it, then rubs my cheeks. “Better.”
“Thanks?” I wipe at my damp cheek.
“Come, you will entertain the king at dinner.”
“Entertain?” I don’t need red makeup when my cheeks go up in flames all on their own. I know what a consort does to entertain her king.
She cocks her head, the horns tilting right along with her. “Yes, speak to him. Show him your talents. You do have talents, do you not?”
“Talents?” I swallow hard. She means consort sex talents. She has to mean that, right? “Are we talking about the same thing? I feel like we’re having two different conversations, but I can’t tell.”
She rolls her eyes. “Forget the speaking. You can’t carry a conversation with me, much less with royalty. Come.” She turns on her heel in that effortlessly precise way of hers and strides from the consorts’ quarters into the long hall.
The sun pours through the high, thin windows, and there’s not a candle in sight. Do they never tire of the sun’s constant assault? I try to keep up with her, the gossamer-like fabric of my light blue dress floating out behind me. At least the shoes she gave me aren’t slick on the bottom. They’re actually sort of delicate, the fabric far too nice to be worn on my feet. But I didn’t argue. Mama would smack me with the carrot pot if she found out I turned down fancy clothes.
“I don’t know what they teach you in the Nightlands, but here we observe good manners and pleasant conversation during meals. I expect you to conduct yourself accordingly.” The matron’s tone is a whip as she hurries down the hall.
We pass soldiers, though none of them even glance at me. How are they going to see danger coming if they stare straight ahead all the time?
I open my mouth to ask that very question when a high fae couple enters the hallway ahead of us. Tall and golden, the tips of their pointed ears are pierced and adorned with jewels. I doubt anything this fancy even exists in the Nightlands. We have fireflies and moonlight for ornaments—or maybe that’s all we changelings get. Perhaps the night nobles prance around in jewels and gold at the court of the Night Keep. I wouldn’t know.
More high fae appear, several of them giving me long glances and whispering amongst themselves. As a changeling, I’m shorter. But that is far from the only difference between these high fae and me. The most frequent whisper I catch is “her skin,” followed closely by “her hair,” and none of them seem too pleased with either of those attributes.
I scoot closer to the matron. She may be kind of mean, but she’s the only one who seems to speak to me as a person instead of simply gawking at me like I’m a sideshow conjurer.
