Aerin is supposed to wear gold, always gold, gilded like his perfect prisoner. The dress Bruin sent over three days ago sits crumpled on the floor of her closet. Yesterday, she would have worn it. Today, there is a Dragon-Fae in her living room and anger blooming like a thorned flower in her chest.
“When are you leaving, because I don’t think I can handle this without you for much longer,” Quinn complains, raising her glass of sparkling wine to her lips, the elaborately decorated ballroom behind her.
“Right now,” Aerin assures her, grabbing her clutch off the bed.
“See you soon,” Quinn calls, ending their video chat.
The event Aerin is pointedly late for is a yearly celebration of the treaty forged between the Mer, their underwater city of Serine, and Valtara. The treaty was established shortly after Valtara itself. Every year Aerin is required to attend along with the other nobles and highbrows of Valtara and Serine. As a Faeling, things like this thrilled her, presenting her with an opportunity to get out of the Royal Village. These events were always fun with Bruin at her side.
Now, it only reminds Aerin of all she’s lost, everything she signed away on a dotted line. It eats away at her like a rotted wound, and all she can do is try to ignore the festering pain.
Aerin takes one more deep breath, spinning the ring on her index finger, before she strides out of her bedroom, heels clicking on the dark hardwood. When she emerges from the hallway the ice blue eyes of the Dragon-Fae are already on her.
He stands slowly, looking impeccable in all black Royal Guard formal wear, the Tolvare crest embossed in gold on his lapel. The top half of his hair is tied back; the rest left to dance down the back of his neck and along his jaw. His strong, darkbrows raise slightly as his eyes travel up and down her body, once, then twice. An almost smile ticks across his previously stern mouth, his lips the perfect complement to his strong features, broad and flat bridge of his nose, chin with its slight dimple, freshly shaved jaw.
Matching his stare, Aerin lets her own travel across his broad chest, even broader wings, down his strong thighs to the boots he wears under his slacks. When she reaches his eyes again, they are devouring her, scrutiny and curiosity taking turns in his gaze.
He inhales, sharp. Something crackles in the room, as if the air between them has been stripped of everything—space, breath, oxygen.
She can’t breathe, doesn’t want to, isn’t convinced there will be anything for her to inhale.
Aerin knows this feeling. The recognition snaps her out of her daze. She looks away, and like a puppet on a string he seems to fall. He clears his throat, moving to the door and pulling it open for her without a word.
Looking for the upper hand again, Aerin says, “You look sexy in a suit,” as she passes him.
The Dragon-Fae whips his head to look at her incredulously, murder in his eyes. Aerin decides she likes that look, decides she likes forcing him to drop the control he tries so hard to maintain.
Aerin smirks at him before walking down the hallway, hitting the button for the elevator. Eventually, he joins her, standing at her side, stepping into the elevator with her. If Father hadn’t put him there, Aerin wouldn’t much mind having the hot Dragon-Fae with her.
Silence splits the air, but when the doors slide closed, he says his first words to her since this morning.
“I thought you were supposed to wear gold.”
Aerin doesn’t look at him when she says, “I was.”
8
MALICE
Malice hates a lot of things, and it seems his time in Valtara is only going to add to that list. The stuffy suit he’s wearing, the tie like a noose around his neck, the way creatures’ eyes linger over Aerin as they walk from her apartment to the museum. Aerin in general. Her smell. Her smile. The way she says shit likeyou look sexy in a suitafter devouring him with her gold eyes. They both felt the tension, held it between them for far too long.
Malice keeps Aerin on the list of things he hates. Selfish, vapid, reckless, beautiful. He won’t allow himself to shift his perception, for his sanity and hers.
The Princess strides confidently in ridiculous heels, eyes on her phone, paying Malice no mind. In fact, she doesn’t pay anything much mind. Malice pays attention for her, watching each pair of eyes as they land on Aerin Tolvare. Whispers, finger pointing, cameras aimed her way. The eyes that linger too long get a stern glare from Malice until they too avert their gaze.
Not that Malice can blame them. Aerin puts every other creature to shame in this dress, and she know it—temptation personified.
As they walk through the cool spring evening, Malice’s intense hearing picks up the noise of the event from over a block away. As they edge closer, Malice throws his arm in front of Aerin. She stops before she touches him, going so far as to take a step back.
There must be at least fifty creatures in front of the building where the event is being held. Coordinators. Paparazzi. Fans.
“There are a lot of creatures around that corner,” Malice warns. The look on her face tells him she already knows. “Are you ready?” He examines her one more time. She wears a fierce confidence, like armor.
Aerin gives him the same smile from earlier. The one that feels close to a warning. Not mischievous, but malicious.
“For anything,” Aerin affirms.
Malice doesn’t know how to feel about that answer, unease snaking up his back.
