‘What is it?’ Greta came towards him. ‘Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?’
He swallowed thickly. ‘It’s the king … He’s glaring at me. Murderously.’
‘He’s not glaring at you, Aren,’ said Brynn, looking between them. ‘He’s glaring ather.’ She grimaced at Greta. ‘I think you’re in trouble, Iversen.’
Greta turned to find herself snared again in the brightness of that devasting glare. The king was standing on the far side of the ballroom now. Captain Vine was beside him, muttering urgently in his ear, but Alarik made no sign that he was listening to her.
His attention was entirely on Greta.
Brynn was right. That look meant trouble. And when Alarik Felsing stepped away from his war captain and stalked single-mindedly towards her, she had the unnerving sense that that trouble was about to get a whole lot worse.
CHAPTER 19
Alarik
Alarik was seriously considering stabbing his falconer. Just a light stabbing. More of a warning than a fatal wound. He had been thinking about it ever since his wrangler stepped into the ballroom and stole all the air in his lungs. She had arrived hideously late, looking like some wild-born princess, sprung from the snow-capped forests of Gevra, with her hair crowned in flowers and that magnificent midnight-blue dress hugging every inch of her curves.
A bolt of longing had gone through him at the sight of her, and he had scowled at his own weakness.
While Alarik’s attentions had hopelessly splintered, Elva hadn’t so much as faltered in his arms, so poised and practised was the princess on the dance floor. She was a worthy waltz partner for the king, but he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering. It was all he could do to spin her, again and again, away from the sight of his wrangler and the terrible things she was doing to his heartrate. But his gaze betrayed him, returning to find Iversen at the end of every perfectly executed twirl. He couldn’t look away from her in that dress – in that crown of flowers – and yet every glimpse of her laughing with that damned falconer was torture.
‘Why do you look like you’re about to go to war?’ said Captain Vine, joining the king at the edge of the dance floor. She gestured at his hand resting threateningly on the pommel of his sword.
‘Remind me,’ said Alarik, in a low, menacing voice. ‘How important to the war effortisour falconer?’
Vine frowned, following the king’s gaze. ‘Tell me your current murder face is not about our wrangler.’
‘It’s not about our wrangler,’ he lied.
‘Then why are you staring at her?’
‘I want to dance with her.’
Captain Vine sighed. ‘Thatis a very poor idea.’
‘What are you, my mother?’ Alarik snorted. ‘What do you care who I dance with?’
‘I don’t especially care about your dance partner. What Idocare about is all those poisonous elk King Nilas has promised us, not to mention the extra battalion he’s dedicating to our cause. So, if you’re itching to dance with someone, then please, for the love of Grinstad, dance withyour bride-to-be.’
Alarik rubbed the spot between his brows. His captain was making perfect sense, of course. Elva was his betrothed, not to mention the very reason for this ball. But he had danced five waltzes with her already. What harm would it do to dance with one of his own for a change? The Halgard delegation were fascinated by his beasts, and Iversen was their leader, the very person who would lead them into war. If Alarik invited her to join him for one dance – just enough to take her in his arms and let those skirts spin around them – then it would only be to satisfy his guests’ curiosity.
‘You’re over-reacting, Vine. She’s my wrangler. My guests will want to see her.’
‘Tor was your wrangler for years. Did you ever dance withhimat a ball?’
‘Don’t be pedantic. Tor is a terrible dancer.’
‘And you’ve sure as hell never danced withme.’
Alarik turned to his war captain. ‘Would it make you feel better if I asked you to dance?’
Vine recoiled. ‘Don’t you dare. You know I get motion sickness.’
His attention wandered back to his wrangler at the precise moment that infuriating, mooning falconer decided to toss a berry into her mouth. She caught it with zeal, laughing in triumph.
And then Alarik was walking – no,marching– right through the next waltz, parting the dance floor in rivers of skirts and frock coats.
Iversen met his gaze as he bore down on her, that dainty chin raised like she was steeling herself for a blizzard. Everything else fell away, the lilt of music and the roughened guffaw of soldiers, the chattering guests and the heady smell of wine, until there was only the storm of her eyes and the cautious tilt of her head.
