“What’s it say?” Ember leans over, looking at the jet-dyed paper, the golden ink gleaming.
Resignation wins, so I open it to read:
Wraith,
With the Autumn Equinox in only a week’s time I am in desperate need of a date. Luckily for me … you owe me one. I think you can guess the favor?
—Princeling
Ember leans over my shoulder, mouth agape. She grasps the card and shows it to Amaya and Kasper, the latter of whom looks supremely uninterested.
“What’s the favor he’s talking about?” Wynter asks curiously.
“Nothing. I ate his sandwich, he wasn’t impressed.” I tuck the card away in my pocket. Draven’s invitation to the ball must be his cover for introducing me to the seraph king, nothing more. Of course, he’s also been teaching me to block mental attacks each night, but that feels like a favor for both of us. Mortified by the stares, I add flippantly, “He just likes to mess with me.”
I half expect to see him around some corner laughing at my flushed face. But I don’t, of course. In fact, I’ve never seen him here. My brows draw together as I realize I’ve not seen him outside our Hearth and the sparring gym. Where does he go all day? I’ve seen other years, and it’s not like I haven’t caught myself looking for him.
Ember grins. “Imagine the dress you’ll get to wear going to the ball with the prince.”
“Don’t remind me.” My shoulders slump. I’m sure it’ll be something embarrassing or ridiculous. The thought of all that attention makes me want to curl inside myself like a turtle.
“Well, we may not get much say in how things run here,” Morgan growls quietly, leaning in close enough that I take in his salted caramel scent. His gaze locks on my lips and I’m suddenly aware of my body, the way his knee leans heavily against mine, the distance of our chests as they rise and fall. “But it doesn’t mean you have to dance with him.”
“Yeah … you could dance with me.” Wynter’s gaze snaps up and I suppress a grin, squashing my smile, but traitorously my lips inch upward in the corners anyway. I manage a jilting little shrug and can’t help but notice a hint of darkness crossing Morgan’s face, like a shadow flitting between rooms.
But he doesn’t own me.
I tell Wynter, “I don’t see why not.”
11The Equinox Ball
The Three of Coins suggests that working together is vital for success, especially when striving toward the same goal.
THE WEEK OFthe Equinox Ball brings additional decorum. Draven takes a personal interest in my aptitude for putting my foot in my mouth. So, while my friends are learning basic etiquette, I’m stuck spending the time with him instead, working right up until the ball. He sits in the armchair of our shared living room, feet propped on the coffee table, eating another of his delicious sandwiches that he refuses to share.
“Again,” he demands, gaze flicking up and down with scrutiny. “I don’t understand how you can bow angrily, but you’re managing it.” His wings drape off the sides of the chair, dusting the floor. I’ve never been so tempted to pluck him like a chicken. Tone dripping with pure boredom he adds, “That wouldn’t go the way you think. And shields up.”
I shake my head, clenching my jaw and fists as I rebuild my mental barriers. Taking a deep breath, I shudder out the tension and try again. I curtsy, imagining Draven as King Altair of the seraphs instead, evoking my desperation to impress him.
“How were you not executed every week in Westfall?” Draven rolls his eyes, taking another large bite of his sandwich.
I growl, pacing the room. I stomp over to the waterfall in the corner, letting the soothing tinkling calm my nerves.
After a moment he comments, “At least you didn’t drop your shields that time. Not that anyone would need to mind-read to see that you want us all dead.”
“Not all of you.” I think about the changelings, and even the druid friends I’ve made in this kingdom. A stone sinks in my chest. “I’ll admit the reasons behind the Selection weren’t what I thought. Mortals carry responsibility for it, too, and some immortals aren’t responsible for it at all, especially changelings …”
“No … they weren’t.” Draven’s tone is measured, as if building a bomb between syllables.
I round on him. “Butyouparticipated. All the royals do. Hells, you’re the one responsible for every changeling this year.” I stare him down, but his reaction isn’t the fire I expect.
He holds my gaze, and though he doesn’t observe me with any pride, there’s no humility either. “What do you think would’ve happened to me and Ansel if we refused?” His counterpoint comes with a snarl, wings folding tighter, and he crosses his arms. “But you’re right. I made the choices so he wouldn’t have to carry the burden of it. He’s too young to understand, and I’d like to keep his innocence intact as long as possible.”
“Will you hide behind that excuse when you’re king? ‘There was nothing more I could do’? ‘This is the way it’s always been done’?” I can’t decide if he’s just like them. Or worse because he was Selected himself. “I’d like to sleep at night knowing that at least one royal doesn’t deserve to die for complicity.”
“Then leave Ansel off your list.” Draven stands and my back straightens.
He and I are on far better terms than when I arrived, but my body still screamspredatorwhen he moves too suddenly. My heart pounds, my skin heating.
